


Ascella

by bo0hoo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:56:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28820355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bo0hoo/pseuds/bo0hoo
Summary: After being unfairly imprisoned, Ascella Black receives a visitor who offers her freedom in exchange for her assistance in defeating the returned Dark Lord.
Relationships: Remus Lupin/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	1. Escape from Azkaban

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dates have been switched for this story's purpose but is canon for all intents and purposes.

_January 1st, 1996_

Ascella began her morning with a wide grin and yawn. She was in an excellent mood, though she knew she couldn’t provide an answer if anybody bothered to ask. Her days were all the same; she began with a stretch (first her arms, legs, then back), then moved on to meditate until those horrid guards brought her food for the morning. She was lucky that the Ministry had made this damned prison a little bit more bearable. It hadn’t always been like that.

Ascella could remember a time when her meals were irregular. They were sometimes thrice a day, sometimes once a day, and sometimes once a week. It was really if the guards bothered enough to distribute that many meals. If she tried hard enough, she could recall the day when some Minister Apparated into Azkaban, all high and mighty, and demanded that there be changes. Ascella didn’t know why she thought it was funny since she obviously benefited from said changes.

So here she was, legs folded beneath her as those robed creatures swung the door to her cold and barren cell open. A tray of food appeared at the step, and Ascella was wise enough to wait for the Dementor to disappear before she lunged for the meal. It was decent that morning: fruit that hadn’t yet molded and some stale bread. She was provided some water, which she downed in one gulp.

She could smell the rain in the air, the approaching storm. Ascella hated storms on the island. Regardless of how high up she was in the tower, seawater always poured into her cell and dampened her gown, if it could even be called that. She finished her food, stomach still unsatisfied, and the tray disappeared with a snap. Bloody magic, she mumbled. It had been getting weaker in recent months but was still there, deep in her gut, like rising water levels in a reservoir. It was just out of reach. How Ascella missed her wand; magic in general, really.

She could hear a voice on the other side of the stone wall. She was acquainted enough with the familiar noises to know who it was. She frowned, and when the sound didn’t quiet, Ascella shouted out, “Shut your trap, Dolohov. I’m getting tired of hearing you yap.”

There was a sudden silence, then, “Fuck off.”

Ascella sighed as the singing started back up again, laying flat on her back. There had been some days where she would have gagged at the idea of laying down on the moss-covered stone, but times had changed. Ascella had, too. She smiled with amusement at her own thoughts and fell promptly asleep. She was becoming good at that again; she had a few years where that had become a challenge. It was a shame and a real annoyance, actually, when the only thing to do on the island was to sleep.

Time passed quickly, flashes of retreating light and moving clouds behind Ascella’s closed lids. It had to have been near midnight when she heard it: the boom. It shook her straight to her core and had her scuttling for the far corner of her cell in fright. Rain pounded against the walls, and puddles gathered in the cracks and dips of the floor. Thunder rumbled overhead, and bursts of lightning lit the dark and storming sky.

There was another boom, this time closer to her cell. It must have been Dolohov’s cell.

She could hear a loud noise just under the rolling thunder, like a manic laugh, and it didn’t take long for Ascella to pin it as Bellatrix Lestrange’s laugh. It neared her cell, closer and closer, and a shape came into the faint light beyond the bars of her door. Lestrange. 

“Pity, pity,” her voice was low and cracked, spent from the days she spent screaming in her cell on the level below. Ascella could hear it, but the noise had faded into the background over the years. “It’s a shame you can’t leave with me,” her fingers, long and pale, wrapped around the gritty bars. She spat, and a wad of blood mixed with saliva landed at Ascella’s feet. 

And she was gone, and Ascella could hear the manacles still wrapped around her wrists dragged on the stone floors. She saw another figure go by, this time Dolohov, and he cast her a wicked grin barely visible as he passed her by. Ascella swallowed, her fingers tight in the fabric of her prison gown, and there were some cracks of Apparation. She counted ten of them. She tried herself to Apparate, but like always, there was a damper on her magic that suppressed her slumbering supply. She grimaced and shimmied deeper into the corner of her cell. 

The night passed slowly, and within a few minutes that had already been Aurors that arrived in the prison. Outside of her door, a pair talked. “ _How’d you think they did it?”_

_“I reckon it’s Sirius Black! The_ Daily Prophet _is already talkin’ about it.”_

Ascella only caught a few names of the escapees: Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, Dolohov. She didn’t recognize the rest and didn’t care enough to remember, but there were a few conversational points that penetrated her mind. Sirius Black. It echoed in the chambers of her mind, only because they shared the same name. Then there were those _Death Eaters_ , the servants of this “Dark Lord” who was unfamiliar to Ascella. Sirius Black was said to be one of them, and so were the Lestranges and Dolohov. Loyal followers; Death Eaters.

Death Eaters. A silly name. 

With a long and exhausted sigh, Ascella curled up into a ball on the floor and slept for a good long time. It must have been the next morning when she awoke because the air smelt like the hours following a storm and fresh rain. There would have been a time where she appreciated such things, but it just meant more cold, the type that seeped into her thin and flimsy gown and through the pale layers of her skin. As she stretched again, sight still a bit blurred from sleep, Ascella nearly missed the shadowy figure in the corner of her vision.

Ascella yelped aloud, eyes wide. There was a man inside her cell. He was quite ugly, in all honesty. He had an oddly constructed face. His mouth was set in a permanent grimace like he was displeased continuously by the way life was going. There seemed to be a chunk of his nose missing, and several thick red scars ran over the lump. His skin was rough and patchy, his one working eye wide. His other had been replaced with an artificial one attached to a metal headpiece; it made a whirring noise when it moved, constantly scanning the room and its surroundings. He walked with a limp, and Ascella noticed that he had a wooden peg with a clawed foot where his leg should be. He was an Auror; she could tell from the way he carried himself, and she instantly hated him.

* * *

Ascella thought he was mad. He looked the part.

“You–” she still couldn’t believe what he had said. Her eyes bulged, fingers fisting the fabric of her gown. She suddenly felt very underdressed. “You want to _what_?”

His eye focused in on her. She found that any little movement she made attracted the brown iris, and it twisted and spun in its metal casing as it took her in. She swallowed as he took a step forward. “The Ministry wants to set you free.”

And Ascella went still because surely he was making fun of her. It had to be one big joke because her last encounter with the Ministry of Magic went God-awful, enough so that they had thrown the girl into Azkaban. But that had been years ago, and there was obviously a war brewing. Was the Minister really desperate enough to set her free?

“Why in Merlin’s name would they do that?”

The Auror bit the inside of his cheek. She felt very exposed, trapped in there with him. “Because there is a war. And we want as many allies as we can.”

“And why would the Ministry see me as an ally? They put me in here,” her brow quirked. “And why should I have any reason to trust you and not go over to that…that Dark Lord’s side.”

“The Dark Lord does not value what you value, Ascella Black. He wishes to kill Muggles. All of them,” Oh. Ascella gnawed on her bottom lip. She had picked up that habit several years ago, and now her lips were cracked and scabbed. Her fingernails weren’t much better and had been bitten down to the bed. Ascella vaguely remembered her mother scolding her for doing. “You’re also quite powerful, and as I’m sure you are aware, you happen to know the Dark Lord. Quite well, actually,” never mind that Ascella hadn’t even picked up her wand in a couple of years, and that she hadn’t even touched her magic since her imprisonment.

“What exactly do you mean by that? I don’t know him,” Ascella spat. She couldn’t help it. She felt like she was being accused of some great crime she didn’t commit. She wasn’t even aware of the Dark Lord’s existence until a couple of years prior. Gossip was exchanged for sex and more gossip, and Ascella wasn’t that desperate. Anyways, Ascella certainly wasn’t on a first-name basis with this wizard. She wasn’t sure what the Auror was implying.

“If you want to come with me, I can explain.”

“Who are you?” she scowled. He called himself “Alastor Moody.”

His brow, the one not hidden or cleaved off from beneath the metal eyepiece, lifted. “Unless you don’t wish to get set free.”

And maybe the restlessness was beginning to get a bit too much, or perhaps she was just tired of the same dull surroundings, but Ascella got to her feet – albeit a bit shakily – and met Moody’s eyes. “Of course I do,” she snorted. “On one condition,” he grunted, and she took it as a go-ahead. “I get a bath. A long, hot bath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ascella" is the traditional name for a star system called "Zeta Sagittari." This system was officially titled (I'm not sure when it was discovered, but I'll go with the same dates for both of these references) in 2016, but for the sake of the name and the fact I figured this out 5 chapters in, I'm not particularly interested in changing her name. 
> 
> I hope you understand and can look past this tiny detail


	2. 12 Grimmauld Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ascella goes home.

_January 2nd, 1996_

* * *

Alastor Moody, who insisted on being called “Mad-Eye Moody,” took Ascella firmly by the arm and Apparated her in front of a row of houses, though she was unable to see. A magic blindfold had been placed over her eyes, and she didn’t argue much since she was right out of prison and probably still suspect.

It had been several years since the girl had Apparated, and she instantly felt the effects of the mode. Her breakfast from the day before rose up her throat, and she vomited onto the still-wet cement. When she finished, still a bit queasy and light-headed, Mad-Eye waved his hand and cleaned away the mess.

Ascella stood up straight and took a deep, deep breath. It had been the first time in a while that she had been able to smell the fresh air. The atmosphere around Azkaban seemed to carry its own dense oxygen, something that smelt like the sulfuric tang of dark magic and a stuffy room. It was like she could never get a fresh breath. Who cared that she was blindfolded.

“Yes, yes, very touching,” his hand still wrapped tight around her arm, Mad-Eye yanked Ascella forward with one of those odd grunting sounds. She could hear a scraping and rumbling noise, like somebody was rolling a boulder, and when it eventually stopped, accompanied by a slightly metallic jingling, he led her on. “I’ve got her!” was all he announced when he shoved her through the door.

“I beginning to think I’m another prisoner,” she mumbled, just low enough that Moody could hear it. There were other voices where she was, but far away, like they were behind a closed door. The inside of the building was warm enough that heat flushed over her skin. It had been a long while since she had been inside a place that wasn’t exposed to the elements, and the temperate heating felt scorching. It would take some time to adjust, she figured.

“Hush it,” was all he said. “Stay here,” and he walked off. His footsteps were odd and very identifiable. There was a thumping sound from the large boot he wore and then a heavy tapping from his peg. There was a third noise, too, obviously from the walking stick he took with him. “You all, move on!” he shouted, and there was a shuffling further away and the closing of doors.

And she was alone. She wanted to take off the blindfold and have something to change into because she wore only her thin prison gown. Perhaps she should make herself feel a bit presentable? No, it wasn’t worth it, not when they (whoever they were) clearly knew she had come straight out of Azkaban. So she gathered her wits and at least tried to carry herself like the creature she had been before she had been locked up: a member of House Black.

A door opened, and footsteps approached. “This is her?” a second voice, different from the rough sound of Mad-Eye’s, spoke.

Ascella frowned, bracing her hands on her hips. She imagined she was quite a sight, with her dirt-stained skin and tangled, overgrown hair. Her toes curled a bit on the carpet. She hadn’t put on a pair of shoes in years. “It’s not as if I had a chance to freshen up.”

She wrinkled her nose as Moody approached her. The blindfold fell from her eyes, though there was a prickling sensation on her skin like it was still there. She took in her surroundings. She was in a long corridor, lit with gas lamps and a large iron chandelier. Once decorative and undoubtedly elegant, the black-grey wallpaper had shadows of portraits still clung to the peeling layers. The carpet beneath her feet was a poor thing, curling at the edges near the black molding. It was familiar to her, and it took Ascella a few moments until her eyes widened and mouth hung open.

It was her home.

“You look just like my mum. More so, I bet once you clean all that dirt off your face,” Ascella’s gaze fastened on the man before her. He had a strong jaw, high cheekbones with long dark lashes that framed grey eyes. His black hair brushed his collarbone and contrasted his pale skin, which was lined with age. He had an elegant beauty to him, though something was haunting about his appearance.

“Pardon?”

“You’re–”

Moody budged past the man, grabbing Ascella by the wrist to drag her away. “Save it for later. You need to talk to Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore?” Ascella blurted. “He’s here?” Moody shot her a strange look, then continued to pull her into a vacant room. She recognized it, only barely. The dining room was a shadow of its former self. Once lively despite its bleak inhabitants, it was dull and nearly dying. Cobwebs streamed on the beams overhead and the iron chandelier. The back corner was filled with several stacks of newspapers. There was motion in the back corner, something that made Ascella’s bones go hard.

Of course, that horrid thing was still here. Ascella had nothing against house-elves; instead, she thought they were quite incredible, but she despised Kreature. It was less of him as an individual and more of what he represented. His personality and values were a replication of Ascella’s own family, and he was a product of his environment. Still, Ascella disliked him and tried to keep as far away from the being, but it didn’t mean she was cruel to him.

“Mistress Black!” he exclaimed, and a sudden expression of surprise spread across his wrinkled features. “I-it’s been a long time since you’ve been back to 12 Grimmauld Place, Mistress,” he bowed carefully. “Kreacher is glad to see his Mistress back home. Kreature is always glad to serve a member of the great House of Black.”

Ascella forced a smile onto her face. She had never been disinherited, much to her surprise, when she discovered several years prior that her family had passed on before anything could have been finalized. “T-thank you, Kreature,” she stammered. “You can go.”

He bobbed his head, long and thin fingers wrapped tight around a stained flannel. He hobbled through the kitchen and disappeared through a set of tall glass doors that led to the servants’ stairwell.

“Thank you for coming,” a voice spoke from the table. Ascella hadn’t immediately seen him. Consequences of age, she thought.

“It’s not as if I would pass up this opportunity,” she paused. “I’m surprised you’re still around, Professor,” his lips twitched in a smile. He had changed since she last saw him, even if it was quite obvious. His once-auburn hair had grown a silvery-white that brushed his navel and was sinched at his chest with a blue-beaded string. He bore pale blue robes and matching slippers that peaked out from beneath his crossed legs.

“It’s been a journey,” was all he said. He motioned for Moody to leave, and the door to the hallway shut behind them. There must have been a silencing charm on the room because it went quiet. “And you? You look young.”

“Ah,” she pursed her lips. Peeling skin scratched against one another, “tricks of the trade. How is Flamel? Hopefully, he doesn’t hate me _too much_ for what I did all those years ago.”

“He’s passed,” Ascella opened her mouth to speak, but he cut in smoothly. “It was time, and he was ready. You had nothing to do with it, Miss.”

“I hope not. I couldn’t have that on my conscious,” Ascella slid into a seat. It was as stiff as she remembered it. The knobs dug into the sore spots in her back. “Speaking of that…” she trailed off, leaned a bit forward onto the wood dining table.

“Right. You’re wondering why you’ve been brought here?” Ascella nodded. She hadn’t the faintest idea of why she had been summoned; why she had been taken from one prison to another. “I’m sure what you’re familiar with the war going on and the Dark Lord’s involvement?” Ascella blinked, and she shook her head.

“Bits and pieces. This Dark Lord is still a mystery to me, Professor,” Dumbledore looked a bit surprised. Information wasn’t always as hard to get, but nobody at Azkaban risked associating themselves with the witch.

“I see,” he leaned back in his seat. He clasped his hands. “It begins with Tom Riddle–”

“ _Tom Riddle?”_ her eyes widened a bit. Ascella didn’t have to wrack her brain as usual. She knew Tom quite well. They grew up together, both in Slytherin. There had always been something peculiar about him like something hadn’t _clicked_ early enough. Ascella still remembered that he carried himself with pride, regardless of his blood status. She had only found out after an accidental slip of tongue one evening in the Slytherin Common Rooms. Firewhiskey did that.

“Yes, Tom Riddle. Several years after your graduation, Tom Riddle went missing and disappeared for several years. It’s only after a couple decades of research that I’ve been able to discover that he has been consorting with dark wizards. In the early ‘60s, Riddle approached me for a teaching job at Hogwarts, which I rejected. He had never been interested in teaching, and he had a short temper when it comes to learning,” Dumbledore twisted his lips. The next words came out sour, “There had always been something off about Tom. Always _too_ curious. Always wanting to learn more, more, more about everything, regardless of its implications and consequences.

“In a way, that’s a good thing, but Tom Riddle had always struck me as dangerous. I’m afraid I was too blind to see the path he was on.”

Ascella was still confused. She didn’t understand where her old classmate fit into this war. “And what path was that?”

Dumbledore’s features arranged themselves into one of quiet fury. “Tom Riddle began gaining followers who shared his beliefs on Muggle hatred. He began using the name, ‘Lord Voldemort,’ and his followers called themselves ‘Death Eaters.’ The First Wizarding War was caused by Voldemort’s hatred of Muggles, and he used creatures like werewolves and giants, beings who had been historically oppressed and outcasts in society, to his advantage. Eventually, Voldemort met his end after he to killing a member of the Order–”

“The Order?” Ascella cut in. It must have been newly formed.

“Ah, so you might need to go further back,” his lips twitched as if slightly bothered that Ascella wasn’t already aware. “During Voldemort’s rise to power, I created a group of witches and wizards who I knew stood against the Dark Lord and wanted to destroy them. Two of these members were Lily and James Potter, recent graduates from Hogwarts. You see, they had just given birth to a son, whose they named Harry. Ascella, to understand Harry’s significance to Voldemort, you must know that there was a prophecy given by one of my professors about ten years into the war and during Voldemort’s peak of power. It predicted Voldemort’s death, and Voldemort found out of this prophecy and began searching for the child. He found that Harry had been born in July and made to kill the boy. But as I’m sure you know, Harry Potter didn’t die, and Voldemort did. Now, Tom Riddle seeks out Harry Potter to finish what he started.”

Ascella was shocked. Voldemort had tried to kill a _child?_ The thought went acrid in her mouth. “So, that’s why everybody knows about Harry? Why the Death Eaters hate him so much?”

“Yes. Harry is the only person known to have survived the killing curse. He was the boy who lived.”

Ascella took a deep breath. “How could I…how could I possibly assist you in defeating Tom– _Lord Voldemort?”_

Dumbledore reached to pull his half-moon spectacles off the bridge of his nose. “Your time with Tom Riddle provides us invaluable insight into who he is and what he wants.”

“I haven’t had a conversation with him in nearly 50 years, Professor,” Ascella blinked.

“Perhaps you don’t need to speak with him now. You know what he wanted then, somewhere in the depths of your mind. I hope that your time away from Azkaban can help jog those memories.”

Ascella frowned. She had never known Tom quite well, but she had dated one of his friends in Riddle’s circle, and they had shared many classes and free periods together. “I can try, Professor. My memory is…” she trailed off, and a wave of humiliation washed over her, “…spotty, to say the least.”

“I can understand. Old age can do that,” amusement flickered in Dumbledore’s eyes.

Ascella’s mouth gaped, and she exclaimed, “I’m not old!” her voice was strangled with a laugh.

“Of course not,” his lips quirked in a smile.

They eventually said their goodbyes, and Ascella watched as he walked through the tall door leading to the front hallway. He had a few words with the man from earlier, who cast her several looks through the course of their conversation. Ascella took a deep breath and began up the stairs at the beginning of the hallway.

Her room was on the fourth floor, next to her brothers’ old rooms. Ascella remembered that before she had left, she had locked the door for everybody but her. She didn’t care that it was selfish, but it was her room and her memories.

The most noticeable feature was the bookshelves. They were dark wood, packed tight with thick and thin tomes of every sort. Muggle books were scattered amongst, too, but many were on magical theory and history. There was not a single layer of dust on the pages or surfaces, something Ascella had ensured long before she ever left this house. The walls were painted a bone white. On the far wall above the twin, windows was a Slytherin banner, something her mother insisted on her putting up. Several posters of Muggle bands hung over the rickety desk stationed between the wall and her bedside table. The bed’s headboard was carved of dark wood, the mattress covered in a thick grey duvet.

At one time, she would’ve loved the room. In a way, she still did, because it was the room she had grown up in, but there was no color besides the books' binding, and even that wasn’t enough. Ascella made a note in her mind to change the hues of some of her belongings as soon as she could adequately perform magic.

The bathroom off to the right was outdated but still functional, but Ascella didn’t mind it in the least. In Azkaban, prisoners were provided a bucket of water that was refilled only a handful of times. It wasn’t warm, but it sufficed. She immersed herself in the old tub, the feeling of water lapping against her skin, foreign but not unwelcome. She scrubbed at her skin until the water was brown and her skin red. Her hair was a whole different matter, and it took an entire bottle of shampoo and conditioner to work out the kinks.

When she toweled herself off, she found an emerald green jumper that perhaps fit her better before Azkaban and a pair of loose black trousers. Who knew what was in style these days.

Ascella tugged open the door, hair cold and the dampness unfamiliar against her nape, to meet face to face with the man from before. He gave her a tentative but still confident grin. “You must be my lovely aunt.”


	3. Amina Roberts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amina meets her nephew, then dreams of a lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of consensual sex (nothing graphic or detailed)

_January 3rd, 1996_

* * *

She had thought he looked familiar. The eyes gave it away. She was undoubtedly Walburga’s son, and Ascella wasn’t sure how to feel about it. He wore a deep purple velvet vest over a black silk long sleeve. His pants were corduroy, his shoes a black suede.

“Which one are you?” Ascella asked. “I never did get the chance to see her after I went away, and nobody was willing to tell me anything. Thank Merlin, the old bat is dead.”

He smiled. It seemed authentic. “Sirius Black,” he bowed at the waist, arm dramatically extended, and lips quirked in amusement. “And you’re Ascella. Funny that we’re meeting this way. Two Azkaban escapees and banished Blacks.”

“I’m glad it’s you, then,” she crossed her arms. “I couldn’t bear seeing those prejudiced fat heads immediately,” she met Sirius’ eyes. He looked so much like Walpurga that it was unsettling. She frowned. “Are you the only one left then?”

He nodded. A dark looked flashed in his eyes, but Ascella chose to ignore it. She was quite desperate for information. “Mum died in ’85. Old age and some twisted form of heartbreak, I guess, after Reggie and my Dad died. Sorry, my brother. Your brothers and sister, too.”

“Shame about Alphard.”

He was the most bearable of her siblings. He had always been kind, despite some of his more extreme views. Sirius shrugged. He didn’t seem to know them all, and Ascella figured that was perfectly fine. In her opinion, the fewer Blacks, the better. She had never liked her family, and she wondered where they went wrong with her.

“Am I allowed to leave, or am I trapped here too?”

Sirius took a deep breath, and his shirt stretched down a bit, revealing a pattern of inkings across his chest. “Can’t leave the house, just like me.”

She was right then. She had gone from one prison to another. She didn’t think she knew which one was worse.

* * *

It was probably the house that triggered the dream. It was one she used to have right after Amina’s death when she was confined to the cold cell with only her thoughts and nightmares to keep her company. Ascella didn’t leave her room after Sirius left, and she shut the door and tried to get some sleep. She struggled for a good while; the bed was too soft, and she felt like she was going to sink right through the mattress. The pillow was too hot, the sheets too prone to getting tangled, and she finally chose to lie on the floor on the other side of the bed.

* * *

_She was nineteen. It was summer; she could tell because she could smell the sweet air._

_The two had run off to the countryside for the weekend and stayed in an inn in Chilham. Amina wasn’t in the room, Ascella noted when she first opened her eyes, and she vaguely remembered her saying something about getting breakfast when Ascella was still in a sleep-induced haze._

_Ascella was quite happy with the room that Amina had chosen. It was a surprise, something to get Ascella out of the city and escape the wrath of her parents and siblings. She could hear the guests' quiet chatter next door, a young couple with a small child aged about eighteen months. The walls were paper-thin, and Ascella had to resort to a silencing charm even to bed her lover properly._

_But it was perfect._

_She sat up, skin prickled with goosebumps as her bare skin met the cool air. Ascella found her nightwear strung around one of the white posts, and she pulled the pearl camisole over her shoulders. She almost didn’t even hear Amina coming up the stairs if it hadn’t been for the subtle creak of the steps._

_“Ascella,” she whispered as she pushed the door open. “Are you up– Oh,” she smiled, stepping fully into the room. She shut the door with her back. “Good morning.”_

_Ascella beamed. Amina was dressed in a green sundress, a golden bracelet dangled from her thin wrist. In her hands, she held a breakfast tray. “Mornin’.”_

_“I got us food. It’s the least I could do since you’re paying for this,” she set it down on the trunk beside the armoire, then turned to twist the lock._

_“You didn’t have to,” Ascella got to her feet. Her hair, dark and a bit mussed from sleep and sex, brushed the base of her spine. “Thank you.”_

_Amina only giggled, taking a step forward to her lover to place her warm hands on the witch’s shoulders. Her hair, a bright red, had been bound in a loose braid. Ascella always loved the girl’s hair down, she thought, and she pulled the hair-tie off the end._

_“I just did that!” Amina exclaimed with a pout. “You’re lucky I love you,” she breathed as Ascella worked her long fingers through the rouge locks._

_Merlin. Ascella would never tire of hearing that. She only grinned, taking Amina’s face in her hands to press her lips against the other’s. They fit together perfectly, like puzzle pieces. How Ascella wished she could scream her feelings from the rooftops, to put a diamond band on Amina’s annoyingly empty ring finger. They would never have that. Not ever._

_They spent the morning lazing about in bed, feeding each other strawberries and tarts as Amina read from one of the books she had brought on the trip. When it was noon, and Ascella’s limbs felt stiff from not moving, they changed into more appropriate wear and began their walk through the small village. Ascella didn’t know of any magic here, and the buildings were so-far untouched from the Muggle war. But there was a shadow of grief over the citizens, a lack of men, and an abundance of women and playing children. That made up for something, Ascella thought._

_Her wand pressed into her side, tucked into the tight band of her dress. They kept a healthy distance away from each other, hands occasionally brushing as they stepped aside to let a car or biker pass or when they both reached for the same product at a local market._

_At the end of the day, they sat at a small restaurant. It was a little slice of peace for the girls. Amina struggled with the war, and her days were filled with caring for patients of sickness and war. Ascella’s were often spent in the Ministry of Magic. The wizard running rampant in Europe had tensions high amongst the wizarding world. It didn’t help that there were two wars at once. They only fed off each other._

_“Run away with me, Amina,” they were sitting on a bench in the park, a small thing with a pond._

_“You know I can’t,” it was the typical answer. Amina would never. She was far too noble to do such a thing, to run away from the war._

_“We can never be together, not truly, when we are in Britain. We can go back to America, to New York City. Or we can go anywhere you want. I’d go anywhere for you.”_

_She was turned down again, a gentler response. But Ascella loved her so deeply that the prospect of living in a city so clouded by her family’s influence was enough of a barrier that Ascella felt it was time to leave._

_Ascella so rarely let herself dream of Amina. Not anymore. But it must have been this new prison, the rush of feelings and strange sorrow at unsurprising news of her family’s death. When she woke the next morning, she vomited into the toilet._


	4. The Family Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ascella meets two new people.

_January 4th, 1996_

When Ascella finally went downstairs the next morning, 12 Grimmauld Place was near-empty, save for a mixture of two male voices in the kitchens. She dressed in a pair of black leggings a grey knitted jumper, then bound her hair in a long braid. It had taken a while to remember how to do her hair, how to weave her thick dark locks into a plait, but she eventually managed to wrangle them into something resembling a single braid.

“ _Your aunt, you say?”_ one voice said. He must have been speaking to Sirius, Ascella figured as she descended the stairs. The feeling of the polished wood was unfamiliar against her skin, and she relished the new-found texture. It had been so long since there had been anything but stone and cold metal. Everything felt a little too posh for her, though she would’ve laughed herself hoarse at several decades before.

“ _Yes, she’s not what–”_

Ascella’s toe suddenly caught on a frayed end of the rug, and she almost went tumbling down the steps. She fumbled for the railing, and her fingers wrapped around the wood, but not without hitting her leg against the wall. A loud _thud_ rang down the corridor, and the familiar sound of running footsteps met her ears. Her face went warm when Sirius rounded the corner, his eyes wide.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “I’m not really used to…” her voice caught. It was embarrassing, really, to say that she had forgotten that natural fluidity she used to have, and that movement felt foreign. She didn’t want to speak it aloud that her old bedroom felt too large, the bed too soft, and the light from the windows too harsh. A glimmer of understanding flashed in Sirius’ eyes, and he gave her a gentle smile as she gathered herself.

“I understand,” was all he said. There was movement over his shoulder, just in the archway of the kitchen. It was a man, but he was too far off for Ascella to make out his features. She had realized the night before that her vision must have deteriorated a significant amount, for anything too far away was slightly blurred. “Oh,” Sirius straightened, tugging the fabric of his jacket down. That day he wore a black dress shirt similar to the one from before and a Gryffindor-red overcoat. A pocket watch with a long gold chain was strung from one pocket to the other, and his black leather belt held up black dress trousers. “Ascella, this is my friend.”

The figure joined them further down the corridor. He had a rugged sort of handsomeness to him, with a strong jaw flecked with stubble. His mousy brown hair was messy and rumpled, streaked with the occasional gray. His eyes narrowed as he approached, and only when he was right in front of her did Ascella notice the scars. There were three of them; long, jagged silver lines running parallel to each other from cheek-to-cheek. They ran over the bridge of his nose, which was slightly crooked like it had been broken once or twice. His clothes weren’t excellent, and he had a shabby brown-grey cardigan over brown pants and a grey button-up. 

“Remus Lupin,” he regarded her with caution as he took in her appearance. She had a young face, hollow cheeks, and too sharp bones from the point of her chin to the harsh line of her cheekbones. Her hair was as black as his friend’s and was bound in a messy and irregular braid that brushed her hip bones. Her grey eyes were wide, framed by thick and dark lashes that brushed her cheekbones when she blinked. “I’ll be off then,” he stepped around her to reach Sirius. He squeezed his friend’s shoulder before pulling him into a hug. “Take care.”

He left through the front door, but not without giving Ascella a quick farewell nod. “He’s nice.”

Sirius shrugged. “He’s paranoid. I would be, given the state of England,” his eyes narrowed. “You do know, right?”

Ascella’s eyes drifted from the retreating figure of Lupin through the frosted windows, back to Sirius. “Dumbledore told me some. Not everything, but some. I could tell he was leaving some things out.”

“He doesn’t tell anybody very much. He’s odd in that way,” Ascella’s brows rose a bit, and a smile pulled at her lips.

“He’s always been a bit queer,” she twisted her lips in a frown. “What do you do here to pass the time, anyway?” Ascella didn’t want to talk about Dumbledore.

“Me? Not much to do,” Sirius took a deep breath, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Do you read?”

“I used to before it all happened. It’s not like the Ministry was kind enough to allow me some personal effects,” Sirius snorted. It was nice that Ascella would have some shared experience with somebody. She had always felt so isolated, even in the confines of her cell. “I have some books in my room. I haven’t bothered to pick them up yet.”

His eyes brightened. “Books? Do you mind? It’s not as if anybody here really cares enough to help me keep boredom out,” Ascella paused but eventually agreed with some hesitancy. She led him back upstairs, all the way to the fourth floor. “That’s my room,” he motioned to the door on the right. “That was Reggie’s.”

“That used to be my own brothers’ rooms, too,” the smile she gave was devoid of any humor. She still missed them, even if she hated most of her family with everything she had. But they were family, and that was always important. “Here,” she pushed through the doorway, and she felt that shiver of magic gloss up her spine as she stepped inside. “You can come in.”

“This door has been locked up for several years, you know?” Sirius said with a raised brow.

“I like my privacy,” was all Ascella said. Never mind that the day she did it, she didn’t know that she wouldn’t return to open the door for nearly five decades.

Sirius took in the room, the white-painted walls and the dozens, maybe hundreds, of books stacked in the several bookshelves. “You said _some_ books,” Sirius gasped in awe. “You’re so unlike my mum,” he mumbled.

He was right. Walburga never cared for such mundane tasks as reading. Her number one goal had always been to please Mum and Papa. “You know, one day, she broke in here and tried to take all of them. She had always hated me, I think because she thought I was a ‘Muggle sympathizer.’ She was right, of course,” bitterness crept into her voice, something Sirius didn’t miss, “but it still hurt all the same.”

Sirius didn’t respond for a good while; he only admired the stacks. “Can I ask you something?” he said after a few minutes of silence. Ascella nodded. She leaned against the doorway, the wood biting at her skin through the fabric of her jumper. “Why were you locked up?” So, it was that question, not the other one. Ascella grimaced. Her history wasn’t something she loved to share, especially when it had something to do with her imprisonment.

“I’d prefer not to talk about it, but ask Dumbledore if you’re so intent on knowing,” Sirius watched as she disappeared down the stairs, leaving Sirius alone in the room.

* * *

She spent the rest of the day in the drawing-room, sitting in front of the tapestry of the Black family tree. She had pulled up a spare chair, and all she could do was fasten her gaze on the burned spot beneath her mother and father. Her name was scrawled beneath it, in fine white print: “ _Ascella Lysandra Black_ ,” though only a few letters remained after her face had been blown out. She'd spent so long in the seat that the sun had moved several feet across the carpet by the time she was finished; because for the first time in a long while, Ascella attempted to piece together the fragments of memory she held of her time before Azkaban.

There were few faces she was quickly able to recall: Amina, of course, her sister, and her mother. The rest were a jumbled mess, and when her mind strayed to Hogwarts, the first person she was able to dig up was Tom Riddle. Ascella had never been close with him, but the new information Dumbledore had presented to her changed things. Now, Ascella was increasingly curious, and she found herself furious when she was unable to recall much about their time spent together.

There were several nights where their group had lounged in the Common Room on the black couches before the green flames in the fireplace, passing around bottles of Firewhiskey and Muggle cigarettes. Ascella remembered that Tom was excellent in Potions and was top in their class for everything, actually. But everything else was far away, just out of reach and blurred enough that it was practically untouchable, at least for the moment.

Around six, when Kreature had just left the drawing-room after cleaning the mantle of the fireplace, the front door swung open, and she heard a noise echo through the house. “ _Filthy Mudblood!”_ it exclaimed. It was feminine and so familiar that Ascella almost lept to her feet. “ _Get that thing out of my house. Filthy, dirty Mudblood–”_

The voice went silent, and there was a clamor of voices after. “Sorry, Hermione,” Ascella heard Sirius say. She ought to close the door, but she didn’t want to get up, not after so long of sitting down with her gaze stuck on the tapestry before her. There was then a surge of noise, laughter, and a sound like people running up the stairs.

Ascella shrunk into her seat, and through the cracked door, a man’s voice. “Stupid witch,” he hissed. “Might as well burn the whole place down if she’s going to keep calling Hermione that.”

“Oh, it’s _fine,_ Ronald. It’s not as if she’s even alive anymore,” said a second person, this time a girl. Their voices disappeared about the hall. “Harry, you coming?”

Harry. Harry Potter, then. Ascella’s limbs went heavy when she heard him say, “I’ll be right up.”

The door to the drawing-room pushed open, and in walked a boy. He was young, with a lop of messy black hair. Behind a pair of round glasses, he had startling green eyes.

Ascella felt a surge of nervousness wash over her. “Are you…are you Ascella Black?” his voice was quiet and tentative, like he was apprehensive about even speaking to her. If he was smart, he would be. But Ascella nodded anyway since it’s not as if there was any point in dancing around the subject.

“And you’re Harry Potter?” she tilted her head in curiosity.

He dipped his head. “Sirius told me that you’re his...,” his eyes lifted on her face, “…his aunt.”

He gave her an incredulous look as if he could barely understand his own words; in a way, she supposed he didn’t, given the expression he wore. Ascella got to her feet and brushed the dust off her pants. “Has Sirius ever explained to you why his face was burned off?” Ascella knew the vague details from Kreature. 

Harry nodded. Ascella approached the tapestry and pressed her finger to the spot where her own face was. She half-expected soot to come off on her skin. “That’s me,” she gave him a thoughtless smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She moved up. “That’s my mother, Irma Crabbe, and my papa Pollux.”

Her gaze flitted to Alphard’s own burned space, but only for a moment. “I didn’t know that was you,” Ascella shrugged. The writing was barely legible at this point, and she didn’t imagine Sirius would divulge her history, godson or not. “What happened?”

Her throat bobbed. “You’re lucky that most of my family has died, Harry Potter, for the House of Black has a history of ugly drama. I got caught up in it, and I ended up in Azkaban.”

It wasn’t a satisfying answer, but Ascella saw no use in telling him. Their conversation ended quickly, thankfully, and Ascella watched as Harry saw his farewell and made to join his friends on the third floor. Alone again, Ascella returned to Alphard.

She had never gotten to say goodbye; the thought racked through her mind and body so forcefully she shook. She had never gotten to say goodbye to any of them. 


	5. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus wakes up after a full moon, then attends dinner at 12 Grimmauld Place before the children go back to Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow this chapter didn't upload, so sorry if you were reading through and got kind of confused

_January 6 th, 1996_

Remus Lupin was incredibly irritable when he woke Saturday morning. His bones were stiff and aching, his head pounding, and he had a fresh gash on his forearm, along with several other cuts peppered across his skin. He scowled when he first noticed it, sprawled across the floor of his cellar. It had been an excruciating transformation last night, and his wolf had been upset.

He still didn’t have a reason why he realized as he made for the bathroom upstairs. He put on a pair of pants so he could apply a poultice to his new wounds without having to be worried about being seen stark naked by some poor woodland creature. His legs itched; he figured he should fix up the cellar since he spent so much time there. The floor was chipped, and he got splinters whenever he touched it. Remus figured that his wolf had begun getting annoyed at the sheer amount of pricks on his skin. It had happened before.

His wand was on the dining table, a small circular thing with dents on the edges and two mismatched chairs. But Remus had always lived in poverty, and it didn’t really bother him. The entirety of his cottage was like that. He owned a shabby green couch. There was no telly, and he instead had a hearth framed by several bookcases. He liked to read. He liked it a lot. It helped ease his nerves.

Remus vaguely remembered talking to Sirius the night before about his reservations with the Black girl. There was something off about her like she had some secret she was guarding. Remus only noticed it because he did the same.

He hissed as he healed the cut on his arm. It was magical, and a new silver scar cut across his pale skin. He padded into his bedroom and found a pair of trousers and a faded white vest. He had nowhere to be today, as the Order tended to understand that the day after a transformation set him in a low mood. Remus situated himself on the couch, a radio playing in the background, and began to read to pass the time. It was only nine, and he had the rest of the day to sulk if he wanted. He might as well do something productive.

He picked _Lord of the Flies_ , though he had no real reason why. Remus vaguely remembered seeing it in a second-hand books store and had been drawn to it, sitting alone and tucked away behind a stack of more modern books. It had been torn up, the cover and binding frayed at the corners. It was shabby, and the title page had a messy signature on the bottom right.

As Remus settled in, his fingers catching and turning the pages with gentleness, he tended to keep buried. There was something about the book that Remus was attracted to. The way Golding showed readers that there was innate darkness in humans, regardless of background, socioeconomic status, or even race, because at the end of the day, we’re still the same beings, and we share the same foundations. Remus found it faintly amusing given the times; it was a war, and even the best of wizards all faced the same danger, and they all resorted to using their darkness to protect what they individually value; they all used the same spells. Same _Cruciatus_ and hexes. There had been something at a more personal level that Remus connected with: He saw himself as a monster. Because that’s what he was, right? Perhaps his own innate darkness expressed itself more outwardly.

As he flipped the page, the boys just gathering with the conch, there was a tapping noise at the window above the sink. There was a barn owl, using its talon to knock at the glass. There was a letter in its clutches. Remus used his magic to pull the window open. He fed the owl some treats from his palm, then took the paper from himself.

_Moony,_

_Im sorry I couldnt make it today. I hope you didnt hurt yourself to bad._

_Can you make it today? I want you to meet Ascella at dinner with us tonight._

_Get back to me._

_Your favorite_

_Padfoot_

Sirius’ handwriting was barely legible; it was more like chicken scratch than anything. There was a time that Sirius wrote with an elegant script, but his hands were too clumsy and prone to slip into writing anything beyond a few okay lines. But Remus appreciated the effort and the message. He smiled, tracked down a pen to write a quick response.

_Padfoot,_

_I’m alright. It’s just a couple of scratches. I’ll try to make it back at 5:00. Tell Molly I love all of her cooking._

_Sincerely,_

_Moony_

He handed the tawny bird the sealed letter and watched it fly back off to 12 Grimmauld Place. Remus would have to add double the poultice to get back to Sirius’ on time, then. He frowned. He might also shower, too, since he didn’t want to walk around smelling like dog and herbs.

He hobbled his way into the bathroom to strip off his pants and ease himself into the bath. It was scalding, but Remus found it was the best way to make the aching bones take some of their bites. He scrubbed at his skin, then washed his hair quickly. He came out feeling a bit better and supposed that he could get away with sitting for most of the night.

He found a set of clothes that didn’t look too rumpled. He figured he was due for another shopping trip. It was snowing out, and he summoned himself a dark brown overcoat before Disapparating away.

* * *

Dinner at 12 Grimmauld Place was always nice. The last night, the kids who be here before returning to Hogwarts for the last half of the school year. Remus had heard some horror stories about the new teacher from Harry upon his return, and all he could do was give him a tight smile and tell him to hang in there because what else could he do?

Sirius had dressed in a bright blue vest and corduroy pants. His style was becoming extravagant as the months went on; Remus figured he was making up for a lost time. Ascella wasn’t downstairs when Remus arrived, and Sirius had quickly informed him that she was still up in her room, though Remus didn’t ask.

“She’s nervous about being here, you know?” said Sirius when he guided Remus to the kitchens. “I imagine she feels out of place, given everything that happened.”

“Everything that happened?” echoed Remus. He took Sirius by the arm and pulled him back for a moment. The kitchen was busy, filled with steaming food and laughter. He wanted a moment of silence with his friend, even if it wasn’t for long. Sirius gave Remus a questioning look.

“You don’t know why she was imprisoned?” Remus shook his head. “Huh,” was all Sirius said with a frown. “Guess I only knew since she’s my…well, you get it.”

“No. I don’t,” Sirius only shrugged, pocketing his hands.

“It’s not my story to tell, then. You’d have to ask her or dig around if you want,” Sirius sighed, eyes flitting back to the kitchen. “I need to get her for dinner. I’ll be right in.”

Remus watched as Sirius bounded up the steps. He had youthful energy, but he moved slowly like his bones ached at sudden movements. Remus took a deep breath and headed for the kitchens.

“Remus!” exclaimed Molly Weasley from the kitchen. She was wearing a tartan apron and held a wooden spoon in her hand. “So glad you could join us, dear,” she smiled warmly and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. Remus gave her a shy smile and found a seat beside Arthur Weasley. It must have been five minutes before Remus heard the light sound of feet coming down the stairs. Sirius arrived first, his bright blue vest catching the light, followed by Ascella.

She wore a pair of loose black trousers and a large navy jumper. Her figure was dwarfed by the clothing, which Remus didn’t find surprising since she had lost a lot of weight. Despite her thin limbs, Ascella still had this aristocratic beauty about her. Remus didn’t like it, especially because she was Black. And any Black that wasn’t Sirius was no good.

“Ascella, love, sit next to me!” exclaimed Molly as she served some stew into Ron’s bowl. There was indeed a vacant seat beside the Weasley woman, right across Remus and next to Harry. Potter gave her a kind smile, much to Remus’ surprise, and whispered a few low words that were masked by the clanging of bowls and silverware.

Dinner was pleasant; Hermione spoke of her plans for their O.W.L.s and some of her family’s happenings, much to Arthur’s delight (he was always eager to hear about Muggles). Ron talked eagerly about Quidditch and his favorite team’s season updates. Ascella just chewed quietly. Her plate was barely full, only a couple slices of meat and some vegetables. Remus remembered Sirius was just the same when he was straight out of Azkaban.

“Did we get anything back on those Death Eaters that escaped Azkaban?” Harry suddenly asked after a stalemate in the conversation. Remus didn’t overlook the sudden fumbling of Ascella’s fork. She held it strangely like she wasn’t quite sure how to use it. Sirius’ eyes flitted to Ascella, then back to Harry.

“Nothing so far, Harry,” answered Sirius. “Just some rumors floating around that they’re back with Voldemort. If Bellatrix is with that lot, then sure.”

Ascella’s head perked a bit, and a name slipped from her lips. “Bellatrix?” her eyes, a stunning grey so similar to Sirius’ own, were a bit watery. Remus noticed that her lids and under-eye were stained red for the first time like she had been crying for several hours.

Sirius turned from his godson to Ascella. He cocked his head, curious. “You know her?” Ascella shrugged. Her knuckles were white from gripping the fork.

“Sort of. We, uh, didn’t get along very well. I think my sister told her all about me, always called me a slag and qu–” her voice caught. She suddenly found the pattern of the dining table very interesting. Her throat bobbed as she said, “Yeah. I knew her.”

The table went silent, only Sirius staring at her with that piercing and disarming gaze of his. “She’s a bitch, Bellatrix. Always looking for trouble and an argument.”

A smirk tugged at Ascella’s lips. “Figured. Is she one of his loyal followers?” they all knew who she was talking about. It was Hermione that answered this time.

“I was reading about her a couple of weeks ago. The Blacks were some of You-Know-Who’s strongest supporters, and everybody knew it,” the adults at the table nodded in agreement. Sirius felt some eyes on him, but he chose to ignore it. He knew better.

Sirius continued, “Bellatrix and the rest of my family were always very prejudiced; they always leaned towards the far right. Called me a blood traitor for choosing Gryffindor, as if it was my choice. I wasn’t surprised when they all chose Voldemort,” he leaned back in his chair, lifting his arms to stretch. There was a unanimous flinch, one Sirius didn’t seem to notice, at the use of the Dark Lord’s name from everybody but the Black kin and Harry Potter. “Anyways,” he let out a deep breath, “no need to fret over the past, Ascella darling.”

She only nodded. There was a burning gaze fastened on her, and Ascella lifted her gaze to meet Lupin’s. He looked exhausted and utterly drained, Ascella noted, more so than usual. They ate the rest of their meal with quiet talk; the youth, who Ascella identified as Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and a set of identical boys who Ascella couldn’t remember the names of, began a rant of a new teacher at Hogwarts. Apparently, she was outright horrid, and Harry Potter had started a new group of students to train for the war in secret. Ascella thought it was brilliant, and she couldn’t hide the small smile that pulled at her lips when each new student cut in to speak.

When dessert came, courtesy of Molly Weasley, Ascella only ate a small bit of pie. The flavors must have been incredible, but to Ascella’s palette, which was accustomed to food tasting like ash, it was much too overpowering. The kids were dismissed and thundered up the stairs, leaving only Ascella and the other adults at the table.

She pushed some food around her plate, so it at least made her look semi-interested. She found herself doing that a lot in the recent days. They began talking about duties with the Order, but nothing to detail because of Ascella’s presence. After ten minutes of dancing around certain subjects, Ascella excused herself, claiming she was tired and in need of a bath. She said goodnight to everybody and an awkward wave to Remus Lupin and went for the stairs.

When she disappeared, and Remus heard the click of her door shutting, he relaxed in his seat, the tenseness in his shoulders finally dissipating. He was confused by her. Her youthful appearance, her quiet personality shrouded in mystique. Remus didn’t like mysteries; he didn’t like questions he couldn’t answer.


	6. The Wanted Poster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter and his friends return to Hogwarts. Ascella discovers the Ministry has issued a wanted poster for her. Remus grows suspicious.

_January 7th, 1996_

The house was empty the next morning, with only her books to keep her company. Ascella had discovered upon her second day back home that she had practically forgotten how to read. She could barely recognize letters anymore, and she had to sit in silence for several hours at a time just to understand the first few pages. It was long and exhausting progress, and it was why she had slept in later than usual that Sunday morning. When she finally roused herself from sleep, padding downstairs, she was surprised to see only Kreature in the hallways.

She gave him a polite greeting, then asked him if he could help her prepare a meal. They worked quietly, and Kreature finally forced the girl to sit down after she was just a hindrance to his task. It must have been noon by the time she heard the front door open. She had been sitting on a barstool, a sandwich between her fingers, watching as Kreature cleaned off the pots and pans when the surge of voices entered 12 Grimmauld Place.

“… _can’t even see my own godson off for school. Ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous!”_ Ascella recognized Sirius’ voice first. The door slammed, and his voice grew louder.

“You’ll blow the whole operation, Black!” exclaimed Mad-Eye as he entered the kitchen. They hadn’t yet noticed Ascella. Sirius braced his hands on his hips, eyes narrowed.

“Have you seen yourself, Mad-Eye? At least a dog is more common-place than _your_ attire,” he scowled, giving pointed looks to Mad-Eye’s artificial eye, peg, and his walking stick. “You’re all a bunch of apathetic pricks!” exclaimed Sirius with a final groan. Finally, he saw Ascella. “Oh, hello.”

She hesitantly smiled, then set down the food. “Where’d you all go?” she asked. Another witch walked into the room. Her hair was a bright purple, eyes glimmering with endless amusement as she took in the interaction. Ascella gave her a quiet greeting, and the girl did the same.

“Dropping them all off for the train since school starts back up tomorrow,” Sirius grumbled. He collapsed into a wood chair at the table, littered with a copy of _The Daily Prophet_. “Right!” Sirius suddenly shouted out. He dug into his pocket and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. “Look, Ascella.”

He tossed it to her, and she shakily caught it. She opened it, and it took her several moments to understand the content. “A wanted poster? I have a… _have you read this_?” Sirius suddenly pulled out another ball and unraveled it to hold up.

“You’re famous,” he grinned. “And look! I have my own, too!” Indeed, he did, though Sirius' was much more terrifying than Ascella’s.

She returned to hers. It read,

_WANTED: ASCELLA BLACK._

_ASCELLA BLACK IS A CRIMINAL, CONVICTED OF TREASON AND SEDITION, AND IS A FUGITIVE FROM AZKABAN._

_IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION CONCERNING THIS PERSON, PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL AUROR OFFICE._

Her eyes lowered. She had a reward on her head for 1,000 Galleons. At least she was worth something. She sighed, tossing the ball into the bin. “Well, that’s that, then. You know, Sirius, you have some dope on me. I bet you could get that 1,000 Galleons.”

Sirius laughed. “Maybe, I will!” he grinned. Ascella figured it was nice to joke with somebody about this, even if she wasn’t pleased with it all. He began animately talking about a story from Hogwarts to the new witch, and Ascella, her appetite suddenly gone, offered the food to Kreature so he could throw it out. At some point in the halt of her conversation with Sirius, Remus Lupin had arrived. He looked a bit better than the day before; that sickly paleness of his face was replaced with a more natural flush across his cheeks, and his posture finally relaxed.

It wasn’t until Ascella had disappeared that Remus took the paper he saw her deposit from the bin with a summoning charm, and only when he had finally left 12 Grimmauld Place after everybody was settled did he read it. He had known there was something off about the Black witch, and this only confirmed his suspicions. Ascella Black was a traitor to her country and the wizarding world, and Remus would take it upon himself to find out why before she was let in on their secrets and what they planned to do.

* * *

Ascella finally stepped away from the curtains when Remus Lupin Disapparated away with a _snap._ She had seen him take the poster from the bin when she turned the corner, and she had watched from the windows as he unrolled it and an expression of something like hatred spread over his features. Perhaps she should explain herself and her motives to him, but Ascella wasn’t at a point where she felt she could speak on her history. Anyway, if Lupin wanted to find out about her, all he had to find was a _Daily Prophet_ copyfrom January of 1946.

Ascella took a quick bath and dressed in a sleeping gown that was too big on the shoulders and waist. Ascella had always prided herself in her hair, and at one point, it had been long enough to reach the base of her spine, but it was overgrown enough to scratch at her ass. She wrinkled her nose and tied it into a messy braid (if it could even be called that), then collapsed onto her bed. It was barely one at that point, but she was tired, and the contents of her wanted poster still weighed heavy on her mind, enough so that sleep was just out of reach despite the exhaustion that clung to her lashes.

She faded in and out of sleep for several hours, and by the time she woke, it was already dark out. When Ascella slipped into a basic set of loose pants and a large jumper to make her way down for dinner, voices were hushed enough that she slowed on the steps.

“ _If Voldemort is in his mind, it is very well our concern!”_ hissed one voice. The door was thick enough that it muffled identities. There was a clanging noise like somebody had dropped a pan on the tiles.

“ _Occlumency lessons? That’s fairly advanced magic. Do you think it could even–”_

 _“_ It has to,” _it was Sirius. Sirius’ voice was the only one Ascella could quickly identify anymore. “Bloody hell, Mad-Eye, do you think we’ll ever get past this?”_

Ascella swallowed, her throat suddenly very thick, and retreated back up the stairs. This conversation was not meant for her ears, and if Sirius’ friend had come back and caught sight of her, it wouldn’t be right. She frowned, and she found herself once again in the drawing-room. She was spending a lot of her free time here when she wasn’t in her own room. Something was comforting in the tapestry, even if her face had been burned off. Her eyes often found her brother, Alphard, scorched right beside her, and sometimes Sirius’ spot beneath Walburga’s own family line.

It was haunting to cast her gaze on an image of her dead family, to take in the finality of the Black blood that would likely end with her because God-forbid Ascella has _children_. She suddenly snorted; who would she even have children with? For a long time, it was only Amina. But that would never work out, and it wasn’t as if they could even bear a child with the other. In the years following Ascella’s imprisonment, the thought brought bile to her mouth, but she had long accepted her and Amina’s fate after the girl’s death.

There was suddenly a creaking behind Ascella, and she spun around to meet Kreature’s eyes. She gasped, heart racing with the fright, but she managed a smile. “Hello, Kreature.”

“Sorry, Mistress. Kreature did not mean to scare his Mistress, only clean. Clean the tapestry,” her eyes widened fractionally, flitting back to the wall.

“Do you… Are you the one who _updates_ the tapestry, Kreature?” the house-elf dipped his head in a nod, and in his hand, he held a dirty flannel. He smiled carefully.

Ascella had always assumed that it was pure magic that had continued the elegant script of birth dates and death days, but it made sense that it was Kreature. It seemed just like her family to force their will onto a house-elf. Her mind suddenly darted to the line of house-elf _heads_ lining the first floor walls. She didn’t know how Kreature could even pass it by and bare to clean the things when Ascella couldn’t manage to properly look at them. She mentally added a note for herself to bring it up to Sirius. Indeed he wasn’t awful enough to keep them there?

“I’ll get out of your way then,” she gave him a tentative smile; they stepped aside and watched as he hobbled towards the wall. He lifted the rag and began pressing against splotches of stains.

“ _Ascella? You in here?”_ the door was shoved open, and Sirius wandered in with a wide smile. “Ah, here you are! I was just looking for you. I swear I heard you on the stairs.”

“I-I was there, but it sounded like there was an important meeting, so I came back up,” her cheeks went warm. “Sorry if I was intruding.”

“Not at all, darling,” he beamed and extended an arm. “Would you like to accompany me to dinner?” he quirked a brow. Ascella suddenly realized that his hair had been cut, though only to his shoulders. Ascella took it, and he led her downstairs, which was currently empty for all but them. Ascella didn’t fail to miss the dirty look he shot Kreature when the elf had his back turned, but Ascella chose to ignore it for the time being. It might be harder to convince Sirius than she thought.

The house was empty, and when Ascella asked Sirius if the others had left, he confirmed. Kreature had already prepared them a fresh meal of pasta and a garden salad, so by the time they sat at the table, their food was already made. They must have been several minutes into small conversation Ascella decided to finally speak her mind. “Your friend,” Sirius's eyes looked up to her from his food, “Remus Lupin. What’s up with him?” Sirius sketched a brow, urging her to go on. “He…” she bit at the inside of her cheek. “He doesn’t like me.”

“Don’t be offended,” said Sirius. He cleared his throat and leaned back in the chair, “Ever since the Potters died, he’s become very suspicious of everybody. Paranoid, if you will.”

“I see,” it made sense. Ascella could see where he was coming from. She had felt the same for a long time after Amina’s death.

They didn’t speak of Remus Lupin for the rest of the evening. The two played several chess games, though Ascella lost every match (she was just rusty, is what she told herself), and went their separate ways when the grandfather clock outside the drawing-room ticked nine.

She didn’t sleep much that night and been up until nearly midnight studying one of her old books in an attempt to relearn. Her efforts were beginning to pay off, thankfully, and she found herself able to read and understand the text at a slightly faster pace than the week prior. When she finally settled into bed at midnight, it occurred to Ascella that today, January 8th would be seven days since she had escaped Azkaban.

The thought clanged through her and chills prickled her skin. For the first time since her return to 12 Grimmauld Place, Ascella drew the curtains before she slept.


	7. The Blitz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Black children go home for Walburga’s sixteenth birthday. German bombers arrives London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: bombs, fires, death, mentions of underage sex
> 
> Some dramatization of the air raids

_May 10th, 1941_

It was a Saturday. Ascella only remembered because she, along with Alphard and Walburga, had returned home for her sister’s sixteenth birthday. It was a milestone in their family, and Mama would have Dippet’s head if he didn’t allow her children to come back for the weekend.

They had spent the day in stiff celebration; they wore pretty dresses and robes, hair fashioned with a thick gel and mouths stinging from too-sweet pastries. By the time evening fell, Ascella was more than a little tipsy, and the Slytherin lot lounged in Walburga’s bedroom. The light from the full moon glossed over her sister’s pale bed sheets, casting an eery glow over the youth.

“So you’re telling me,” began Lucretia, “that you _haven’t_ shagged Fawley yet, Burga?” Ascella wrinkled her nose with slight distaste as the girl started. Lucretia had a nasal voice, like a whine. But Ascella was wise enough to stay silent; she was still the youngest of the group but old enough that they had accepted her into drinking with them.

Her sister looked up with a slight frown. She had always been disapproving of any statements so bold. She swept a stray hair off of her face as she declared, “Me? Do something so – _lewd?”_

Ascella nearly laughed aloud as she turned to face her sister. Where Blacks were typically lean and willowy, Walburga reached a grand 5’3. Her dark hair was swept up above her collar and pinned, so her curls were rounded like a “U” that curved up to her ears. A few loose pieces fell into her face and over her ears in tight, springy girls. She also wore an emerald green dress at the request of their mother.

“Well, there have been _rumors_ , you know?” continued Lucretia. Ascella sighed, settling into her spot atop Walburga’s bed. Her dress, a black evening dress with a dark green overcoat, had ridden up just enough to reveal the knobs of her ankles. Even if her family _hated_ Muggles, there was still a certain allure to their fashion. Indeed, each of the girls in the room wore something influenced by Muggle culture. Lucretia had on a black Utility dress, cinched at the waist and altered, so it was more appropriate for the wizarding standards.

Walburga scrunched her nose, mouth gaping open. “ _Rumors?”_ she exclaimed. “You think Eustace Fawley is courting me?”

“I didn’t say courting,” Lucretia grinned. “Anyways, have you _seen_ him? Hufflepuff or not, he’s quite handsome if you ask me.”

Alphard, who had been reclining in a low-back couch, stifled a laugh. “You do know he said the Boathouse on fire, right, Lucie?” the witch rolled her eyes. “He was playing _gobstones_.”

Lucretia grimaced but didn’t say anything back. She took the Firewhiskey resting on Walburga’s trunk’s flat surface and took a long swig. “I’m bored,” she announced. “It’s only ten, and we have the entire night ahead of us. Whatever shall we do?”

“It’s not as if we can sneak out,” commented Ascella. “Look how dark it is, and we can’t perform magic outside of school.”

The group collectively turned to the windows. Thankfully, they had magic on their side to hide any light, but all of London was under a blackout order because of the Muggle war. It meant that the streets were pitch black, and it was nearly impossible to see more than a few feet in front of oneself. Lucretia let out an agreement, one echoed by Alphard. There was an emptiness to London that felt like the city had been vacated; only Ascella knew this not to be valid from the people she saw going to work during the days. Ascella had spied some smokestacks and piles of rubble from her window, but when she inquired about it to her mother, she was brushed away.

“Miserable,” mumbled Lucretia. “And Mum would kill me if she found out I left,” Alphard snorted, “with the Muggles raging about. She reckons I’ll get killed by one of their…” her face scrunched in thought, “ _…air plates.”_

Nobody corrected her because none of them had any real idea of what the actual term was, save for Ascella, but she wouldn’t admit that she knew Muggle terminology. Walburga, who had been silent for the duration of their conversation, suddenly sat up, her silver gaze resting on Ascella. “You know, Cell, that Tom Riddle boy is quite handsome.”

Alphard bit at his lip to say anything. He had heard some rumors about Riddle, nasty things that wouldn’t be so nasty if his oldest sister heard them. The boy was so unsettling like he didn’t quite belong at Hogwarts amongst the wizards and witches, even if he was a pure-blood (Alphard has his own suspicions about that, but he didn’t bother to voice them).

Ascella scowled. “Tom?” she raised a brow. “Tom and I are barely friends. You know how cold he is – he only hangs out with his group of boys who look at him like he’s some _royal_. A lord, if you will.”

It was Lucretia who spoke next. “But you call him ‘Tom!’ Surely that must mean something?” a look of something like hope glossed over her features.

“I call him Tom because…” she trailed off. She wasn’t sure why she called him by his given name. She didn’t want to admit that she had kissed the boy in the Prefect’s bathroom one night in September when they were both too-far gone. It had been out of character for the Riddle boy, and he had only intended to drink a small amount for the sake of trying alcohol, but Ascella Black had drawn him in by the popped button on her blouse without even knowing it. She didn’t allow her face to betray her thoughts. “Wait, why _do_ you care?”

“Because you’re a fourth year, and it’s time we find you, somebody, to fancy. Tom Riddle is quite attractive, too,” commented Lucretia. Walburga nodded in agreement. She had thought she fancied Tom in the days after their snog, but she had soon realized that Riddle was still Riddle and still had very little interest in girls. She sometimes thought that he was queer, and that was the explanation for his distant behavior, but she came to a conclusion one evening that Riddle was just beyond the more mundane concerns of a teenager.

Anyway, Ascella hadn’t had a proper conversation with Tom Riddle since just after Christmas, and she was perfectly content with it staying that way. “Nope. Not him.”

Lucretia began bombarding Ascella with more questions, but her words eventually faded into elongated syllables when the Firewhiskey started to take effect. Nobody talked about anything semi-important after that. Alphard slept lightly on the couch, his eyes fluttering shut and opening every once in a while to see that nothing had changed. It had been 11:00 (Ascella knew from the clock) when the droning started.

It woke Alphard and even caught Lucretia’s attention, who had been in a dazed conversation with Walburga. It began to grow louder, a steady buzz that started to vibrate in her veins. For nearly two minutes, it went on before the doors to their room flew open, revealing Lucretia’s mother, Melania. “Come children, back from the windows,” she noted the stench of Firewhiskey but ignored it. Ascella shakily stood, limbs stiff, and her attention fixed on the bobbing light just beyond the glass planes. What were they? She thought.

She took her wand and tucked it into the tight band of her dress. It was suffocating, really, and Ascella eyed a pair of pants resting in Kreature’s arms as the house-elf wandered by. As they moved from Walburga’s room downstairs, Ascella hurried to the creature and took her clothes from him with a muttered thank you.

“… _Muggles. Always putting our children at risk because of their petty–”_ Ascella’s mother’s voice went silent as she saw her children approach. “Good,” was all she said. “Come now, just in here.”

They all settled in the kitchen, and the droning noise had become so loud that it filled her ears and head. “Mummy,” mumbled young Cygnus. He tugged at Mum’s curls with a frown. Ascella quickly ducked into the cupboard to switch out her skirt for the pants. She was becoming quite uncomfortable, and it was late enough in the night that her mother would accept it, mostly since most of the guests had left.

She hushed him and swatted away his hand, and as she made to close the door, a loud _boom_ exploded in Ascella’s head, and several screams went up in the room. There was then another, accompanied by the pulsing beat of the drones. Ascella stumbled out of the closet; there was aching on her shoulder. One of the pots had fallen from the high shelf and hit her in the tumble. She felt a bit dazed, and she still wasn’t sure what was going on.

Her vision was blurred, still not relatively straight. Dust fell on her shoulders from the ceiling, which was shaking with the house. There was another boom, though further off, but the building trembled all the same. There were still some screams; Cygnus and Druella were crying.

Somebody grabbed at her arms, and wide-eyed, Ascella turned to face her father. “Ascella, you stay here, okay?” he had a stern face. “Stay with the children!” was all he said, and both he and her mother were flying out the front door with some of the other adults. Then they were alone, and another _boom_ echoed through the halls.

“What’s happening?” exclaimed Ascella. Alphard stepped forward. He was rocking baby Cygnus to try to calm his screaming.

“Bombs. Been happening all week, Kreacher says!” he scowled, but his features softened when he looked down to their brother. “All over London, but this has got to be the worst one yet.”

Ascella, stunned, stared back at him. It was so unlike their parents to go and help Muggles, but she supposed that at this point, their war had a good chance of killing them. She sniffed, wiping her running nose with her sleeve. “What do we do?” she asked Alphard. Another bomb.

He twisted his mouth. “Merlin, do you know how to shut him up?” he burst. The vein on his neck was bulging, and Ascella could see he was trying to keep calm given the circumstances. Somebody shoved past Ascella – Lucretia – to take the baby from Cygnus. He was only three years old, but he was underdeveloped mentally for his age. Mum thought he had one of those learning disabilities.

All over London? Thought Ascella as she moved to the table. Her wand dug into her side; there was no point in having it. It’s not like she could even use her magic. She moved to Alphard to say something, anything, but she froze on the spot halfway there.

Amina. She was in Islington. And she was a Muggle.

She felt her breathing go a bit ragged as another bomb fell, this time closer. There were white specks of dust in Alphard’s dark hair, and she imagined she had the same. It was on the shoulders of her overcoat, and she had breathed some in on accident. “Alph,” her eyes widened as her brother neared her. “Amina. She’s out there. Her parents work Saturdays–“

Understanding flashed in his silver eyes. He was the only one who knew. “Go, take your wand.”

Perhaps he was foolish for allowing his sister to run through the streets of London while it was on fire, but Alphard Black knew his sister. She would go either why, and Alphard instead, he knew about it. If anything, he should go with her, but they had two toddlers and three others, and Mum would kill him if Ascella found out he left the family. So with his mouth in a tight line, he pressed a kiss to Ascella’s forehead and watched as she darted out the back door, the way she always went when she snuck out of the house.

* * *

The smoke stung her eyes and burned her lungs.

Amina lived five blocks away in a row of run-down apartment buildings. Typically, if she ran the route, she’d be there in ten minutes, but Ascella had to swerve to avoid the bombs, and she tripped several times over rubble, and at one point, a body. Her wand was clutched tight in her hands, and thank Merlin, she had changed out of her skirts into something more practical.

She could hear screaming on her right, and a glance in that direction met a tower of flames accompanied by the droning of the airplanes. She had seen her parents warding their house while Lucretia’s parents battled a raging fire two doors down.

She pushed forward, and finally, she passed the first block. The droning grew louder louder louder, and a _boom_ behind her had Ascella flying along onto the concrete. Pain splintered in her knees and palms.

Her head spun, vision blurred, and there was a ringing in her ears that amplified the throbbing pain in her temples. Several feet away, a body lay alight, flames licking at her hair. She was dead, thank Merlin, but the sight and stench were enough to make Ascella vomit onto the ground before her.

She got up and kept moving. Her muscles were tight, and she had run through a plume of smoke as she left 12 Grimmauld Place; she wanted to avoid using magic at all costs to keep the Ministry off her back. Her hair had fallen from its updo and now bounced in gelled locks that pulled at her scalp. Her eyes dragged upward as she stopped to avoid a firetruck going by.

She couldn’t have been out for more than ten minutes, but the night sky glowed a hazy orange. The air reeked of smoke; the plane's overhead noise was nearly deafening, but Ascella forced herself to keep going.

Four blocks.

She could see the familiar church steeple appearing from between the buildings. There was a sound like a sharp whistle, and Ascella snapped to know a building shatter before her. Screams erupted from inside, but Ascella had to keep going.

Three blocks.

A block of rubble flew by her, and all she could do to keep her head on was shout out, “ _Reducto!”_ The brick, a large piece of brownish matter, exploded into a thin mist that cut at her cheeks but did no further damage. She kept going. Her lungs burned. Every breath hurt.

Two.

Shitty birthday for Walburga, Muggle war or not. Ascella grimly smiled as she tightened her grip on her wand. She had never been very athletic. She might actually take up running if this was what her future entailed, though ideally on a _much_ smaller scale.

She turned the corner–

Rubble. There was smoke everywhere, screams sliced through the air in a sorrowing symphony. “ _Amina!”_ Ascella shouted. Her friend’s building still stood, though half of it was in flames. Ascella burst through the front door, shoving past a group of escaping Londoners. “ _Amina!”_ she called out again. She could see the flames now. They licked at the low ceilings and walls. Amina’s apartment was two doors before it, and she pulled out her wand to cast an extinguishing charm over the hallway as far as she could reach.

“Amina!” she let out a cough, eyes stinging, and she pushed open the unlocked door to Amina’s apartment. It was empty, but the room was burning hot, and she could see the beginning of the fire lapping at the walls. She grimaced. Both bedrooms and the bathroom were empty, and there was no sign of the rouge girl. That’s either good or bad.

A sudden scream tore through the night air, nearly drowned out by the roar of the fire and the incessant rumbling of the planes. Amina. It had to be her. Ascella gripped her wand a cast another extinguishing charm. The door to the apartment adjacent to Amina’s was open.

“Amina? Are you here–” the girl was indeed inside, crouched over a wooden beam. Her eyes were wild, skin stained with soot.

“Ascella! Ascella, come here. Help me,” she clawed at the beam, and her eyes flitted to the wand clutched in Ascella’s fist. “Can’t you catch a spell? Can you–” her voice caught. Ascella’s mouth twisted. It had to be the elderly woman, Mary Doyle, who had been Amina’s neighbor for five years.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa,”_ the beam lifted, and Amina was able to drag Mary Doyle out from beneath it. “You didn’t leave?” Ascella exclaimed angrily as they carried the woman to her feet. The beam slammed back down to the floor. They had to share Mary’s weight between them, and they had to go down three flights of stairs. Amina cast her friend an exasperated look.

“I couldn’t just leave her!” she grimaced. “I heard the beam fall, and the fire had been far enough back that I could have enough time to check on her,” they began walking. The woman was unconscious, and it made the trek that much harder.

“Always the heroine, Roberts,” was all Ascella could say. The girl beside her managed a laugh, but it was raspy. She must have inhaled too much smoke. Concern whipped through Ascella, but now wasn’t the time to voice it.

When they were outside, they caught sight of a crowd of fire servicemen grouped outside the parallel building. “Help!” Amina called out. One of the men noticed them, and finally, Mary Doyle was relieved of them.

Ascella instantly launched herself at Amina. The other girl’s hands snaked around her back, pulling her close. A plane flew by overhead, but Ascella couldn’t find it in herself to pull back.

“Come back with me; I can keep you safe,” she said when she was finally able to pull away. Amina’s eyes were wide, thick red hair falling in front of her eyes. She needed to tie it back. But Amina just gave her a kind, almost sad smile, as she said, “I can’t. I can help here, in whatever way I can.”

“You’re hurt,” was all Amina said. Her hand reached up to Ascella’s face to brush at the cut on her cheekbone. She hadn’t even noticed the stinging.

“They won’t be stopping any time soon,” Ascella managed to say after a few moments of stunned silence. Amina could always do that to her: take away that Black wit and fluidity. “I-I need you to come with me. _Please_.”

“I’ll be fine, Ascella Black,” without even a look around to see if they were away from prying eyes, Amina pressed a gentle kiss to the witch’s lips. “I can still get to the cellar a street down,” she said. “Go.”

Ascella, torn between staying or leaving, wasn’t forced to decide because Amina turned and darted away until she disappeared behind a curtain of smoke. She’d be fine, Ascella told herself. She had to be.


	8. The Pensieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ascella and Dumbledore go over her memories of the night of the London Blitz. Remus returns.

_January 22_ nd , 1996

Ascella lifted her head from the Pensieve. She had forgotten about that night, about how the planes raged on until six in the morning, and all Ascella could do was the pace at the windows with only Alphard to calm her down. He chose not to say what had been done to him after their parents returned to find Ascella gone, and it left a feeling of guilt in Ascella’s chest when she saw the emotion in his eyes.

“I forgot,” she said to Dumbledore when she found her ability to speak again, “about that night. I forgot.”

He gave her a sympathetic look as he shifted in his seat. “I find the Pensieve to be useful to jog my memories,” they had chosen a random one. Ascella hadn’t been thinking of anything specific, just sifting through the shards of memory she could hold onto. She wasn’t aware that the London Blitz was one of them. “How are you feeling?”

She frowned, eyes sliding to the windows beyond the drawing-room. They had spent much time there in the past few weeks, looking through her memories. “Tired,” she took a deep breath. “I remembered something about him. Tom Riddle,” interest sparked in Dumbledore’s pale blue irises. He sat up a bit straighter. “That we had kissed in our fourth year.”

“So you were close, then?” his brow raised. His half-moon spectacles were slipping off his nose, but he didn’t seem to notice. Ascella just shrugged.

“I’m not sure. I think it was curiosity.”

“That makes sense. Tom had never been very interested in human relationships that went beyond his necessity for power,” Dumbledore got to his feet. “I’ll let you rest then.”

He brushed off the material of his grey robes and made for the door. “Sir,” Ascella suddenly said. “Do you think I have something to add to this war? That what I have can help?”

A smile pulled at his lips. “Undoubtedly, Ascella Black.”

She didn’t feel very comforted as she watched him disappear down the stairs. She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples. She was disappointed in herself for forgetting that night. She nearly lost Amina. She probably would have if she hadn’t shown up, knowing her.

“Dumbledore tire you out?” asked Sirius as he entered the drawing-room. She snorted. “He does that,” Sirius approached the window and peeled back the curtains to watch as the wizard Disapparated. “Good session?”

Ascella swallowed. “She was in it today.”

“The Muggle?”

She nodded. “The night of the London Blitz. There were bombers from – Germany, I think. And Am– _she_ probably would have died because she was too damned good to leave somebody in a burning building.”

“She sounded amazing.”

“She was,” was all she could manage. It hurt to say her name. It burned her tongue and turned bitter in her mouth. “She was American, you know?”Sirius’ brows flicked up. “Her parents came here when she was seven. They lived in Tower Hamlets, then moved into Islington when she was ten.”

“Why tell me?” asked Sirius. He lowered himself onto the piano bench.

“Because I have to tell somebody. I could never let her memory die like that, not when I owe her everything.”

“Everything?”

“She saved me. Kept me from becoming like every Black before me. She showed me the world. That Muggles aren’t so different from us. That they’re worth it,” a shadow of grief passed over her sharp features. “That I was worth it.”

“You are worth it.”

“I was.”

* * *

Remus Lupin Apparated onto the empty street outside 12 Grimmauld Place with a tired body. He hadn’t been back since January 8 th , and he couldn’t help but to feel a little homesick.

He pushed through the front door, suitcase in hand. An odd smell hung in the air, like rosemary and parchment, but the house felt otherwise empty. Unstirred and undisturbed. Remus frowned and made for the grand staircase. Sirius had been kind enough to lend him a room, and it was technically his primary residence. He only really returned to his cottage in Yorkshire on full moons, which was still a couple of weeks away.

As he went up the stairs, footsteps silent on the old wood, voices began floating down to him.

“ _Why tell me?”_ Sirius.

“ _Because I have to tell somebody,”_ the Black witch. Her voice went low enough that Remus could barely understand what she was saying, even with his advanced hearing. “ _I could never let her memory die like that. Not when I owe her everything.”_

A beat of silence accompanied by the creaking of wood, this time by Remus’ footsteps. “ _Everything?”_ Sirius.

“ _She saved me. Kept me from becoming like every Black before me_ ,” her voice became strangled, and she took a few stumbling breathes before continuing. “ _She showed me the world, that Muggles aren’t so different from us. That they’re worth it,”_ she paused, and even from where Remus was, he could hear the raggedness of her breathing. “ _That I’m worth it.”_

Sirius didn’t hesitate to say, “ _You are.”_

Remus’ lips parted, and his fingers tightened on the frayed handle of this suitcase. “ _I was.”_

When the conversation had gone silent for a good enough time, Remus continued up the steps, though this time he didn’t care enough to hide them. “Sirius? You home?” was all he said. He found when he summited to the first floor that the drawing-room door was only partially opened.

“Remus? Is that you, Moony?” he heard Sirius rise and head for the door. “I didn’t know you were back today?”

Remus grinned as Sirius came into view. He looked well, his smile brighter than usual. “I finished early.”

A slim figure rose from over Sirius’ shoulder: Ascella. Her physical health didn’t seem to improve anymore. There was that same gauntness to her features and the too-sharp definition of her bones, the thinness of her limbs. She met Remus’ eyes for a brief moment. “Hello,” she pursed her lips. “I’m going to go upstairs for a while.”

Remus’ gaze trailed her as she disappeared up the staircase, and he didn’t speak until he heard the click of her door. “You sneak,” Sirius cracked a grin and stepped forward to embrace his friend. “I didn’t think you’d be back until the next moon!” He held Remus tightly, one hand on his nape and the other on his back.

“Scotland let me go early,” said Remus when Sirius pulled back. A flicker of worry passed over Sirius’ face.

“How was it? Nothing too bad, I hope?” Remus shook his head.

“It wasn’t awful. A lot of them over there agree with much of what Greyback preaches, but most are aware of Greyback’s loyalty to Voldemort and what could entail of a society ruled by the Dark Lord,” he frowned. “I wouldn’t say that _I’m_ necessarily opposed to Greyback’s ideas, but to kill Muggles and hunt them freely?” Remus shook his head, his chest rising and falling as he took a deep breath. “That’s where most of us draw the line.”

Sirius pursed his lips. He grabbed Remus by the sleeve and pulled him into the drawing-room. He shut the door behind them with a glance at the stairs. “What do you think?”

“We should be fine. I don’t think Greyback got to them,” he scowled and lowered into one of the raggedy couches. They were uncomfortable, thin, and lost the stuffing long ago. “I’m leaving again for the moon to spend it with them. I told them I had to get back for a couple of weeks before to take care of some business.”

Sirius remained silent. He didn’t like the idea of Remus spending the moon with strangers, werewolves, or no. Remus, detecting Sirius’ dislike for the concept, changed the subject. “What was that about? Your conversation with…with _her_.”

“Ah,” Sirius tutted. “So you heard that?”

“Only parts, and it’s not as if I can just turn the hearing off at my will,” he waved a finger around his right ear with a slight smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Dumbledore’s been coming over here, almost daily, to go over her memories,” Remus lifted a brow in question. “Part of Dumbledore’s agreement with Ascella was for them to work to find a way what Voldemort wants. Ascella was friends with him before, well, _you know_ , and Dumbledore thinks she holds the key to one of his plans, or at least something that could change the course of this war.”

“They were _friends?”_ Remus couldn’t hide the disgust in his voice. Sirius just shrugged.

“They were in the same year, you didn’t know?” Remus shook his head. “I haven’t heard everything, and Ascella isn’t comfortable sharing much, but from what I’ve seen, they’re starting to jog her memories. I was the same way, too. My memories were messy and jumbled, and I didn’t really remember anything important.”

Remus remembered that. They had spent a long time locked in rooms together just talking. When Sirius returned to 12 Grimmauld Place and rejoined the Order, it had been several months after his escape from Azkaban.s

“Can I ask you something?” Remus said after a few moments of shared contemplative silence. Sirius nodded. “Your mother–” a cringe at thats“–what did she tell you about her?”

Sirius’ throat bobbed, and he sank into the couch opposite Remus’. “Not much. Mum didn’t like talking about her, said she was a ‘disappointment to the family.’ I learned most of what I knew from her brother, Alphard. He was the only decent one out of the lot. I remember them being really close. He was the one that left me some money after I ran away, remember?”

Remus frowned. Nothing was making sense. Ascella Black didn't look old at all. In fact, she looked to be about nineteen or twenty, but if what Sirius said was true, then she had to be at least seventy. Sirius snorted. “Once you figure it out, Moony, you’ll be a bit star-struck. I certainly was,” Remus made to get up, to go into his room and sleep away the evil thoughts, but Sirius said before he left: “You should talk to her. She isn’t awful.”

“I’ll figure that out for myself,” was all he said.


	9. The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ascella has a nightmare. Sirius makes a mistake. Remus buys two gifts.

_January 23 rd, 1996_

She hadn’t been sleeping. Most of her nights were spent laying on the soft surface of the bed, her back aching and eyes wide open. Sleep was usually just out of reach, and the rare occasions that Ascella was finally able to sleep were plagued by nightmares that had her waking up screaming. It had happened enough that there was a silencing charm over her and Sirius’ room, so she didn’t wake the whole house, just him.

He was kind enough to spend nights in her room, lounging at the foot of her bed as his animagus form. Some nights he just crawled up to her, licking at her ankles until she could breathe again. He mostly just talked to her, telling her stories of his own time at Hogwarts or some of his own nightmares. It made Ascella feel a little less alone.

It was Tuesday night that she woke screaming, strong hands bracing her shoulders and shaking her so intensely she swore her brain rattled in her skull. “Ascella!” roared Sirius. When she opened her eyes, she was face-to-face with her nephew, his eyes wide and hair falling into his face. She didn’t even have time to get to the bathroom before she heaved onto the hardwoods on the other side of the bed. His hands braced her from falling off the edge, and when she could breathe again, she turned to face Sirius.

“Are you alright?” he asked. It took Ascella a few moments to respond, “No.”

“That’s okay,” he smiled softly. He waved his hand and the mess on the floor, along with the stench, disappeared. He noted the grim expression Ascella bore at the motion. “Anything yet?” she knew what he meant.

“No. I haven’t been able to…to try,” Ascella avoided Sirius' gaze. Her legs were twisted in the sheets. “I’m scared of what might happen. What if it’s–”

The words caught in her mouth, but Sirius understood. “It took me a couple months. It wasn’t until after Christmas that I could even use my wand again,” Ascella remembered that he had escaped in August. They had been under such tight lockdown that the Ministry had reduced the number of times the Dementors were allowed to open the cells. It had meant less food for about two months. “We can practice whenever you’re ready.”

She was grateful, but she didn’t answer, only lay back down on her back. “I’m sorry I always wake you.”

“Don’t be,” his eyes flashed, and he turned to the windows, giving her his side. “After I left, I was alone, with only a cat–” he snorted,”–to keep me company. And I had nightmares, ones that had me screaming until my throat was raw, with nobody to comfort me. I want to be there for you since there was nobody for me.”

“Thank you,” was all she managed. “Can I ask you, what’s your worst one?” Sirius took a deep breath. The panels of his face were illuminated by the moonlight. Ascella could make out the tenseness of his jaw. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

“It's fine,” he chewed at his cheek. “There’s this one I always got right after James and Lily died. When it happened, I was the first to get there. It was…there are no words for what I saw, and perhaps one day I’ll tell you, but not now. I have this dream that I was there when they died and that I was the one that killed them. Or sometimes it’s that Harry dies, too, and it’s Peter casting the spell. It doesn’t matter that Voldemort was the one who said the words; Pettigrew killed them. And then there are the ones that it’s Remus is there, and he’s the only one I have left.”

The words hung in the air for a few moments. “I’m sorry they died. I-I don’t know what happened beyond the basics that Harry survived. I didn’t know that Peter was the one who betrayed them.”

Sirius scowled, and just for a moment, Ascella thought that his eyes were sparkling with unshed tears. “He was their Secret Keeper, you know? And somehow, I got the blame for it all. I wish I had killed him. He didn’t deserve to live all these years. He deserves worse than Azkaban. He’s lucky he slipped away,” the unsaid words were exact: _he would have a fate worse than death if I found him_.

“I think about how she died. It’s not even a nightmare, just a memory, over and over again.”

“How did it happen?”

Ascella bit at her lip. “I’m not ready to talk about it. Not yet.”

Sirius understood. He shifted into his animagus and curled up at the foot of her bed as he always did at night like he was guarding the door against the Dementors that would come for them both. Ascella still couldn’t sleep, and from the irregular breathing from Padfoot, she could tell he wasn’t either.

* * *

The next morning was spent in tense silence as Sirius, Ascella, and Remus Lupin ate breakfast at the dinner table. Ascella couldn’t even force herself to eat more than a spoon full. Her stomach felt hollow, so hollow it hurt to eat. She kept her gaze downcast, avoiding Sirius’ worried gaze and the paranoid watch of Lupin.

Sirius eventually cleared his throat. “So, Ascella, did you know that Remus here was a teacher at Hogwarts?” she looked up at that to meet Sirius’ eyes. She tentatively looked to Lupin. His spoon dropped from his fingers to clatter against the porcelain rim of the bowl.

“I– uh, yeah,” he gave Sirius a frustrated look. “I was a professor there two years ago.”

“You hear that? A professor for– what was it again?” Remus smiled at his friend. He shifted in his seat, bracing himself with his forearms on the table.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts, but it didn’t last very long,” Sirius only grinned at that, and for a moment, the two shared a conspiratorial look.

Finally, Sirius turned to face Ascella with a bright grin. “A _teacher!”_ Ascella licked her lips. They were still cracked, just as damaged as her nails. She fought the urge to hide them in her lap. “Remus, Ascella hasn’t–”

“Sirius,” her voice was soft, low, and shaking. “Stop, please,” Sirius stared and stared, and his expression of excitement fell as he took in the arrangement of her features. She made a point to _not_ look at Lupin.

“Oh. Shit, sorry,” Sirius' mouth dropped. The silence returned, ten times as tense, so much so that Ascella couldn’t stand another moment soaking in her embarrassment. Lupin’s eyes burned into her, a flaming green that took in everything; her movements, her emotions. She felt like he was dissecting her, and it made her beyond uncomfortable.

She stood, collecting her half-full bowl of porridge and empty cup of water to give to Kreature at the sink. The hardwoods were cold, and Ascella had forgotten she had opened a window that morning to get some fresh air. She frowned as she closed it; she hadn’t been properly outside in 50 years. Her eyes lingered on the tree just below the window pane and a woman walking her dog. She took a deep breath, savoring the cool retreating air, and stepped back.

“He’s a prick sometimes. Sirius, I mean,” a voice spoke from behind her. Ascella spun around. “Are you okay?”

She hadn’t heard the door open. Lupin was light on his feet, she noticed. Lupin leaned against the doorframe, eyes narrow and hands holding the long sleeves of his jumper. The bags beneath his eyes were far deeper since he returned. Ascella took a step forward, suddenly incredibly self-conscious of herself and her bedroom.

He must have thought it was so mundane and _Muggle_. He probably thought she was boring. She took a deep breath to steady herself. “‘M fine. He means well.”

Lupin didn’t look convinced. “Fine enough. He has a tendency to not say things very well,” he cocked his head. His eyes strayed from her figure, shivering in a large pale blue jumper on the other side of her bed, to look beyond the frosted glass of the windowpane. “It’s freezing in here.”

She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth. “I was… I needed air.”

Her hair had fallen into her face. It was long, Remus noticed, tangled and split at the ends. It ought to have a cut, he thought. “I couldn’t imagine being stuck in here. Just trapped.”

Ascella just shrugged. “It’s a bit better than Azkaban. It was so cold there, cold and damp, but here I can at least be warm and have more space to myself,” Remus tried to smile. He should be civil with her so she wouldn’t suspect anything. But he couldn’t help but become slightly concerned at the expression on her face from earlier. Maybe it was the teacher in him, always inclined to help, but he had to say something.

“What of the books?” he motioned to the several stacks at her back. Her face went hot.

“I don’t read like that anymore,” she sighed. Remus raised a brow, but she didn’t go further. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he admitted. He dug his hands into the trenches of his pockets, and his fingertips brushed the foil from a finished chocolate square. Ascella looked shocked, her brows shooting up her forehead.

She visibly grappled for something to say and eventually decided on, “But you hate me?” Remus shrugged. The door frame dug into his back, pressing against a sore spot, but he didn’t want to move.

“Perhaps, but I’m still human.”

She sniffed, brows drawn. “Well, thank you.”

There wasn’t anything to say after that, so Remus took it as a sign to leave. He shut the door behind him, mouth set in a scowl, as he descended the staircase to his own room on the third floor. He was getting claustrophobic, stuck in this house with nothing but his thoughts and Sirius, when he was up to talk. He felt a bit guilty thinking it compared to everything that Ascella had just admitted, but they were different circumstances. As he shut the door to his room, an idea struck Remus like a bell.

He had been in her bedroom, see the physical parts that made up Ascella Black’s mind. It had been the books that stood out to him, but Remus knew that she couldn’t have read anything that had been published after 1945.

It had him gathering his wand and jacket, as well as his wallet with some Muggle money. He was soon out the door, unaware that Ascella watched him turn the street corner from her window.

* * *

He had walked off with some hidden purpose that had her watching him until he walking around the corner and disappeared from sight. He had some sly smirk on his handsome features as he shut the door to 12 Grimmauld Place, leaving Ascella and Sirius alone in their home. For some reason she couldn’t quite place, Ascella perched herself on the seat beside the windows to watch for Lupin. When he didn’t return within the hour, boredom hit her hard enough to force her to leave the confinements of her room.

She would have to do some refurnishing, she thought as she shut the door. Such a thought seemed so outrageous compared to her prior living conditions, which consisted solely of damp stone floors and walls. But now, the room felt so… _outdated_ in a way that brought bad memories back that Ascella felt suffocated. She wanted to leave. No, needed to go, but that would put Sirius and the others at risk.

She found Kreature on the first level, muttering to himself as he cleaned a set of vials on the cabinets' interior in the drawing-room. She occupied herself by talking to him about nothing of importance, and Kreature told his Mistress of his late Master Regulus, who Ascella knew to be Sirius’ brother.

It had to have been nearly two hours since Remus left that she heard the front door click open. There was no noise from up above, no suggestion that Sirius had listened to his friend’s arrival. Kreature had left Ascella alone to clean her sister’s room, so Ascella got to her feet.

She bent over the black wood railing to see Lupin’s head dipping into the kitchens. Curiosity had her by the throat and down the stairs. He was facing the other way, the broad expanse of his back clothed by a worn brown jacket torn and frayed at the edges. Ascella noticed that on his nape, he bore a scar that flashed silver in the weak light.

“Where were you?” asked Ascella before she could stop herself. Lupin turned to her, startled. He hadn’t heard her enter or ever descend the stairs. On the table before him were two paper bags.

“I, er, left to get Sirius something,” he grabbed one of the bags and withdrew a gleaming magazine. “Information on the latest rock stars of this year. He missed a lot, and I think he’d want to hear about some of it.”

Ascella crept forward to take the piece he offered to her. It was shining and sticky in her hands; her fingers' pads left prints on the gloss. She flipped through it, enamored at the static images of guitars and idols and bright-haired men. “Everything is so different nowadays,” she murmured. He asked her what about. “ _Everything_ ,” she planted her finger on the face of a man on the top right corner of one of the pages. His hair was a rich red, and across his face ran a multicolored lightning bolt. He wore a silver suit with red and white stripes; it was flared at the shoulders and open at his chest, revealing the flat, pale plain beneath. “Men were never allowed to express themselves so – so vibrantly. They would have been called queer for even putting on makeup,” she fingered his bright red lips. The name made no sense to Ascella, a garbled combination of letters that she couldn’t figure out how to read in her head, and God-forbid she tries to say it _aloud_.

“They’re still called queer,” Ascella was surprised. Hadn’t standards changed over the years? Indeed she hadn’t been stuck in Azkaban for all that time for there to be no development in the way society looked at queer individuals. Lupin seemed to acknowledge her reaction. “There’s still a stigma, regardless of how much time has passed. Five years ago, I think, this singer Freddie Mercury died from AIDS, this sexually-transmitted disease commonly associated with gay men. The year before that, there was England’s first gay pride event.”

Ascella’s brows furrowed. “After all this time?”

Remus shrugged. “It’s worse in America. We’re lucky here to be as far as we are with everything, regardless of Muggles wars or wizarding wars. I’m fortunate to even be alive, considering all that’s happened over the years.”

Ascella stared at him, lips parted. Lupin dutifully ignored her and turned back around to pull something out of the second paper bag. He took the magazine from Ascella and replaced it with the new item: a book.

“This one is for you. I figured since you’re stuck in this house all the damn time, you might have something new to read,” she turned the book over in her hands. “ _The Handmaid’s Tale_. A classic, if I might claim.”

“What’s it about?” she couldn’t admit to him that she couldn’t read. Even just thinking it made her cheeks grow warm. Lupin took a step back from her.

“A dystopian society where men rule,” he paused, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Well, in a way, they don’t already do.”

Ascella’s gaze lifted to him, and the amusement dancing in his eyes. “Thank you,” she tucked it into her side. She opened her mouth to say something else, but a thundering down the stairs stopped her in her tracks. She turned to see Sirius approaching, hair wild and slicked back in a bun.

“Good evening, friends of mine,” he beamed. “What’s that, Moony?” _Moony_. A silly name, one Ascella didn’t think she could understand the meaning behind. She knew that Remus was Moony, Sirius was Padfoot, James Potter was Prongs, and that old friend of theirs, Peter Pettigrew, was Wormtail. But the names made no sense and were likely just some inside joke between a crumbled group of friends.

“A gift for you,” Lupin smiled shyly as he extended the magazine to Sirius. In the dim light, Ascella saw her thumbprints stand out against the black gloss. She slipped out silently, but not before sending Lupin a grateful glance.

She looked to the book in her hands. It was soft and flexible, with a folded corner on the cover. It must have been bought second-hand.

When Ascella reached her room, the door shut firmly behind her. She slid it carefully into one of her bookshelves. She’d save it for later when she could finally read again.


	10. Secrets Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ascella receives some news. Dumbledore visits 12 Grimmauld Place. Remus learns some of Ascella’s story.

_January 24 th, 1996_

Ascella had thought that Remus Lupin would let go of whatever grudge he held against her after the accounts of the day prior, but his steaming hatred returned in full force by the time Ascella dragged herself from her bed. She hadn’t had any nightmares the day before, and she imagined it was only because she was too exhausted to even conjure up a dream.

She felt refreshed, tired, but refreshed, and when she joined Sirius and Lupin downstairs, the wizards seemed to notice it, too. They had been speaking in hushed voices before her arrival, but Sirius exclaimed, “Ascella, dear! You look lovely this fine morning!”

She resisted the urge to touch her face. She didn’t feel physically different besides a lightness she didn’t have the weeks before. She smiled gently at Sirius, then gave Lupin a tentative one, and lowered herself into an empty seat.

“Kreature has his Mistress’ food,” a croaking voice sounded from behind her, and the house-elf set a porcelain bowl of porridge onto the table. Ascella thanked him and watched as he hobbled off, muttering to himself.

Sirius and Lupin immediately began talking again, but the slow start gave away that it was a topic different from their original one, likely changed by Ascella’s arrival. She paid them no mind, instead of focusing on getting a few bites down her stomach so she could at least say to anybody who bothered to ask that she had eaten something. She could feel Sirius’ watch sliding to her on occasion, but it was nothing to worry about, not when she had started the morning so well.

“The Order is having a meeting Friday night, Ascella,” spoke Sirius suddenly. She faced him, brows raised. “Mad-Eye says that some of them want to meet you.”

So there goes her nice day. She grimaced; there was a pit in her stomach. “Why?” she frowned, moon-eyed. Her grip on her spoon was tight enough that the edges of the handle dug into her palm. Sirius cleared his throat, looking to Remus for support, but his friend shook his head and swallowed another mouthful.

Sirius scowled and leaned back in his chair. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “they’re all curious. It’s not every day a Black pops out of Azkaban and _actually_ agrees to join the Order.”

“Is that what I am? A member of your Order?” she sketched a brow.

“Perhaps not officially, but you’ve helped enough to be considered a friend!”

It was Lupin who spoke next. “Has she? Helped us, I mean. Dumbledore won’t even tell us what you know or what goes on in those sessions of yours,” Indeed, the few times that Lupin was able to intercept Dumbledore on his trips to 12 Grimmauld Place were unproductive in seeking answers. He didn’t know anything about Ascella Black and what she actually did.

Sirius butt in to say something, but Ascella placed a thin hand on his arm to stop him from speaking. “It’s hard to remember. You’d think with nothing to keep me company but my thoughts that I would be able to recall everything, but it’s harder to remember than ever,” a hand brushed her shoulder. Sirius. “It hurts, sometimes, to think about it all.”

“What happened to you was… nobody should ever have to go through what you did, Ascella,” his lips stretched into a kind smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised, since it was my mother who did it, but still.”

Her heart clenched. She could barely remember the months before it all happened. “Thank you.”

Lupin was curiously silent through the whole exchange, attempting to dissect Ascella’s emotions. He watched as she swallowed some porridge and continued to watch her until her slim figure disappeared up the staircase when she finished eating. “I want to know, Sirius. I’ve looked, but it’s hard to find anything without drawing anybody’s attention.”

Sirius’ mouth dipped into a frown. “Dumbledore is coming later, Lupin, perhaps you should ask him.”

So he would wait. Sirius eventually retreated to his bedroom, but Lupin sat by the clock, watching it _tick tick tick_ until it struck twelve. There was a crack outside on the street, and the familiar opening on the front door and light footsteps barely audible to even Remus’ ears. Dumbledore was here.

* * *

Dumbledore had left Hogwarts in a hurry. He was beginning to become concerned with his school's direction, but he believed there was enough time left that he could manage multiple tasks at once. His right hand was stained black, a result of the soot leftover from that day’s edition of _the Daily Prophet,_ which he had accidentally lit aflame in a rare fit of quiet rage.

He swayed a bit when he landed on the street outside 12 Grimmauld Place, head still dizzy with anger. Dumbledore cleaned off his hand with a quick charm before carrying on. As it usually was, the road was empty, though Dumbledore made sure to do a routine head-swivel to ensure that nobody would see him mutter the incantation that revealed the Black family home and the new headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

The wizard looked up to see movement in the top floor windows, the bedroom he knew to be Ascella Black’s. She was staring down at him, face obscured by the white shears over the window. Dumbledore smiled at her before proceeding into the house.

A usual mumbling echoed down the stairwell, a voice Dumbledore knew to belong to the Black house-elf, Kreature. The sound of footsteps had Dumbledore looking up to see Remus Lupin approaching, hands tucked in his pockets. He stopped in front of the professor, a bright smile on his face.

“Remus!” exclaimed Dumbledore. “I’m glad you’ve returned. How was Scotland?” Lupin’s mouth twitched. He stood strangely, slightly tilted backward onto his heels.

“Good enough. I talked to Mad-Eye today when he came by and told him about my plans to return,” Dumbledore gave him a knowing look.

“I’m sure Alastor wasn’t too pleased about that,” Remus snorted as he confirmed Dumbledore’s thoughts. “But that’s not what you wanted to talk to me about, was it?”

Remus grimaced. “Can we talk in private?” he led the wizard to the drawing-room before casting a silencing charm over the walls before continuing. “It’s about Ascella.”

“Ah,” he tutted, “our young witch.”

“But she’s not young, is she? I know nothing about her, Dumbledore, and how do you expect me to trust her when everything about her past is buried in classified documents?” Dumbledore’s lips pulled into a smile. He sat in one of the couches. They were uncomfortable, any stuffing lost to age. He crossed his legs, and the beads on seams of his silver robes clicked.

“I’m surprised you waited this long to ask me, Remus,” the younger man’s brows raised in anticipation, “but it’s not my story to tell. There are a few things I can share, however,” Dumbledore shifted back in his seat. The wood carving on the edges of the couch dug into his back. That was starting to ache, too. Perhaps he was getting old. Remus lowered himself into the seat across from Dumbledore. “I’m sure Sirius has at least shared with you that Ascella was born long ago and that she went to school with Tom Riddle,” a nod from Lupin.

“Ascella was much like Sirius Black, in that they both hated the way they grew up and the morals their family put in place. I was Ascella’s Transfiguration teacher for two years at Hogwarts, and long before that I witnessed her incredible talent for magic, but also her individuality amongst her house and family,” a smile tugged at Dumbledore’s lips, and a glazed look went over his eyes like he was reflecting on those years. “We grew close during her time at Hogwarts, mainly because of her interest in becoming an Auror.”

“Why not go to the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” asked Lupin.

“Ascella never had a strong bond with Professor Merrythought, though I’ve never been sure why. I imagine it had something to do with the fact that she was a Slytherin herself, and Ascella wanted an escape,” Lupin nodded, a motion for Dumbledore to continue. “Ascella often wrote to me when she was home; she told me of her travels, her few friends back in London, and her troubles with her family. It was through these letters through the years that Ascella revealed to me her concerns about Tom Riddle, of the whispers she heard from her sister and brothers; it was also through these that Ascella informed me of her plans to run away–”

“Run way?” echoed Lupin.

“You see, Ascella was in love with a Muggle, and she knew her parents would never approve of such a relationship, so Ascella hid her wand and locked up her room, and ran off with the Muggle.”

“And then what happened?”

“Well, Ascella’s relationship with the Muggle was found-out by her family, and Ascella was charged with several crimes relating to her personal beliefs,” Dumbledore shrugged.

“Personal beliefs?” brows drawn, Lupin leaned forward. He could hear the quiet footsteps of Ascella descending the stairs, no doubt to meet with Dumbledore. Silently, Remus locked the drawing-room door.

“Ascella was charged with being a supporter of Grindlewald and a member of the Alliance.”

* * *

“She was– she was _what_?” he couldn’t even hide the disgust from his voice. Dumbledore looked unfazed, his pale blue eyes taking in the various emotions coursing over his face. The doorknob twisted, and Dumbledore’s eyes flitted from Remus to the doorway before unlocking the handle.

Ascella entered. Dumbledore took in her appearance as she entered. He didn’t think he would ever get used to seeing her like this. Gone was the flush over her cheeks, the gentle waves of black hair, or even that natural grace she seemed to have. She was a mess of thin limbs and sharp bones that stretched over her skin.

“Ascella, welcome,” Dumbledore got to his feet, at this point ignoring Remus. “You can leave now, Lupin,” but the young wizard didn’t make to move. He only stared at Ascella with wide eyes.

“Y-you were a–” his voice caught. His hands were shaking with rage. The scars on his face suddenly seemed a deeper red than usual. “You supported _Grindlewald?_ You would make Muggles bow down to us?” Ascella’s hand remained on the doorknob, but her eyes darted between Dumbledore and Lupin. Remus marched forward until he was right in front of the girl, his tall form towering over the girl, though she was by no means short.

“I-I,” she swallowed. Betrayal washed over her features as Dumbledore stepped forward.

“Remus, let me finish,” but Lupin spun around, eyes wide as he stumbled back a few steps.

“No! How dare you let her in this house?” shouted Lupin. Sirius appeared in the doorway.

“What’s going on?” asked Sirius. “I heard yelling,” he looked to Ascella, who was strangely silent. Her throat bobbed, and unshed tears pooled in her eyes. “Are you okay, Ascella?” he reached out, but Lupin stepped forward to place two scarred hands over Sirius’ chest to shove him backward.

“You knew!” he roared. Sirius backed into the banister, thin hands bracing him on the wood. “You knew that she was one of those – _pure-blood supremacists_ who wanted to kill those Muggles. Were you there, Ascella, when it happened? Did you help kill all those families?” he spun around to face Ascella. Fury flared in his eyes, and as he took a step forward, his limbs went frozen, and he found he was unable to move. He jerked against the unseen restraints, and then his eyes met Dumbledore, who calmly approached the trio in the doorway.

“If you would allow me to finish, Remus, you would understand,” Lupin was unable to speak. “Ascella was never a supporter of Grindlewald, right?’ he looked to the witch, who shakily nodded her head. “Ascella hasn’t yet viewed her memories of that day. Would you like to see?”

He looked to Ascella for confirmation, and the young Black witch only bobbed her head in allowance. “I expect you to restrain yourself, Mr. Lupin if I let you go. Can you do that for me?”

Dumbledore loosened the hold on Lupin’s voice. “Yes,” the word was strangled like it was hard for him to even voice such an agreement. When the magic subsided, and Lupin regained control of his body, humiliation, and utter rage still coursing through his veins, the group of four entered the drawing-room.

Floating above the coffee table was a Pensieve. It was a large silver disc, which held a silvery substance like a gas or liquid that resembled water. Dumbledore appeared at Remus’ side, having a thin vial containing a small amount of goldish-clear water. Remus knew they were tears.

He emptied the contents into the Pensieve, and a blackish smoke swirled around in the silver liquid. With a final look at Sirius, who stood defensively by Ascella, Remus placed his hands on the metal container and lowered his face into the bowl.


	11. The Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus views Ascella’s memory of the trial

_January 28th, 1946_

Remus landed on his knees; pain splintered across his skin. It took him several moments to gather himself. When he could think clearly and the thick haze across his vision, he took in his surroundings. He was in a large circular room, various pews filled with witches and wizards framed the black tiled walls. When Remus looked up to the ceiling, past the black and silver mist, floated about a dozen Dementors. Beyond them, the roof was domed.

He must have been in a courtroom, he realized, as he noticed the long black and red robes, which must have been the Wizengamot. Inside the center of the room, inside the circular benches of the jury and onlookers, was a tall caged lined with sharp-looking spikes. Voices flooded his mind as Remus finally sank into a seat.

“… _She’ll get what she deserves_ ,” spoke a thin voice at Remus’ right. The woman beside him was young. Her dark hair was braided from her temples until her mass of thick curls were bound in an elegant updo. Her nose was long and slightly upturned, her eyes a silvery-grey that were strangely familiar to Remus. It was the eyes, the narrow and hooded lids, that gave it away. It had to be Sirius’ mother.

On the other side of Walburga Black sat another girl, about the same age, with pinched features but the same steely gaze. “That Muggle-breeding bitch should get locked up forever,” the girl said. Her voice was high and nasally.

Remus turned to the other side, half-expecting to see Ascella, where he instead met the eyes of a young man. He was tall, broad shoulders covered in fine dress robes. His hair was slicked back until it was bound at the nape with a leather string. “You could be less vocal about your opinion, Lucretia,” he spoke. Remus frowned.

“Oh, shut it, Alphard, you know I’m right,” so it must have been Ascella’s brother, the one she must have been so close with. Alphard’s lips pressed into a line, and he only turned to face the center; Remus noticed his hands were shaking in his lap.

On the other side of Alphard, there was an older woman, stern and bird-like in her appearance. Deep frown lines were etched into the pallor of her skin, which was caked with a thick cosmetic powder. Her dark hair, streaked with grey, was pulled into a tight bun. At her side, the man had an indifferent look about him as if this trial was a hindrance to his day and he had other places to be. This must have been Ascella’s parents. She looked quite a lot like her mother.

There was then a creaking noise, like a gear not yet oiled, coming from the room's interior. A figure began to rise from inside the cage. Remus recognized her immediately, though her appearance was different from the Ascella he knew today. She looked… _healthier_ , somehow.

This must have been what she usually looked like. Her hair, glossy and thick, rolled to her waist in great bouncing waves. Her cheekbones were high and delicate but in a way that wasn’t as skeletal as the modern-day Ascella. Even her eyes were a sharp silver that cut through the tension in the room; she looked filled out and what he imagined she used to be like – that fiesty spirit Dumbledore discussed with him.

But the attire she wore was the same prison robes as what Sirius had been dressed in when Remus had met him that evening in the Shrieking Shack. The shirt was a little too tight on her frame, the pants hugging her thighs but looser after the knees. But Ascella Black didn’t seem to care for her shabby clothes; in fact, she didn’t look as if she had a care in the world, not with that Cheshire smile stretching across her lips. Remus found it vaguely unnerving.

At Remus’ side, a low laugh sounded. He turned to see a smirk resting on Walburga Black’s face, and Remus nearly hit her until he remembered that his hand would simply go right through her fat head. There was a surge in whispers, poorly-concealed words that poured onto the court floor. Words tore through the relatively civil fabric of the room, “ _Filthy blood-traitor!”_ screeched a man in the upper levels. His hair was a pale blonde, nearly white, that blended in with the sickly pallor of his skin. A Malfoy, no doubt. Hands wrapped around his arms and tugged him back into his seat.

The sound of a gavel jolted Remus back into reality, and he once again faced the floor. “Quiet!” the Minister demanded. Remus scratched at his brain until he could remember who resided as head of the Ministry. During 1945, maybe ’46, it was Leonard Spencer-Moon. “This is quite the unusual trial, Mr. Malfoy, but that gives you no excuse for such crude outbursts.”

He was a thin man, with tawny hair scraped back with a thick gel. He was still pretty young for a Minister (only 35!), but he had an assertive presence about him. His black robes hung a bit loosely around his shoulders and waist. He leaned forward in his high chair, brows drawn. “We are assembled here today in these halls for the trial of Ascella Lysandra Black, daughter of Irma Crabbe and Pollux Black, for charges of treason and sedition against the Ministry of Magic and for violating the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.

“Ascella Black, how do you plea?” he narrowed his beady eyes, enhanced by a pair of oval silver-framed spectacles that rested on the hooked bridge of his nose. Remus’ eyes rested on the girl. She was standing with her arms pressed tight to her sides. He noticed that her wrists were bound by stiff manacles.

“Not guilty of all accounts.”

There was an explosion of voices. At Remus’ side, Walburga Black let out a yell of outrage. Ascella only turned to face her sister with a tense jaw. Remus could feel the hot resentment from their stares, seeping through the room and into his very bones.

Spencer-Moon’s expression didn’t change. “Then we shall proceed,” he shifted back in his chair. “On July 1st of last year, you cast the Wand-Lighting Charm in the presence of a Muggle. You then cast the Silencing Charm in the presence of that same Muggle. Now, Ms. Black, you have a history of using magic in front of Muggles. You cast a Levitation Charm on a Miss Mary Doyle on May 10th, 1941, and broke the wizarding law prohibiting underage witches and wizards from performing intentional acts of magic. As you can see, Ascella Black has a history of using her magic in front of Muggles when she had no reason to.”

The Minster waved a paper in the air; instantly, dozens of copies appeared in the laps of the Wizengamot. The sound of brushing parchment whispered through the room.

“May I ask a question, Minister?” a man spoke from the pews. He rose, adjusted his collar, and looked at the Minister for confirmation. With a nod, he proceeded. “It says here, ‘The Levitation Charm was used on May 10th, 1941 at 23:38 in the presence of two Muggles, Amina Roberts, and Mary Doyle. The defendant argued that this spell was used to rescue Miss Doyle from a fire on the night of the London Blitz…’” the man looked up from the paper in his grasp. “It says here that Ascella Black was cleared off all charges as the defendant was acting to save a life. Is it fair to include this in the evidence?” murmurs of agreement echoed around the chamber, but a raised hand from Spencer-Moon silenced them all.

“I am merely presenting the evidence, Brenden Shirleywick, but I assure you that all evidence provided tonight has been approved by the Ministry as valid,” the man – Shirleywick – lowered himself onto the bench. Remus’ eyes were drawn to a flash of movement in the cage, and the small hiss of pain barely audible to even the werewolf’s advanced hearing. He could smell the blood that trickled down her arm and dripped onto her shoes. Ascella had pressed against one of the protruding spikes.

“Next, we move onto the charges of treason and sedition,” the room went still, even the air pausing to listen to the following words. “Ascella Black, you have been accused of being a joined member of the Alliance, the group witches and wizards who followed the dark wizard Gellert Grindlewald on his mission to abolish the International Statute of Secrecy, to go to war with all non-magic and enslave them all should it be won.

“Any member of the Alliance has been charged with sedition and treason at a base level, and is, therefore, a criminal in the eyes of the Ministry… should they be prosecuted and the Wizengamot reaches a guilty verdict,” Spencer-Moon’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Ascella Black here has requested that she provide her testimony to prove her innocence. If you would?” the Minister motioned to the cage, and a pair of Aurors unlocked the large bolt and tugged Ascella out. She seemed to favor the newfound freedom, and she shifted in her chains and rolled her muscles as she approached the large wooden chair centered in the room.

The Aurors plopped her into the seat, but Ascella wasted no time in rising to stretch out her stiff bones. At the movement, the Aurors hurried back to her. “Oh, please, Minister,” she eyed the wizards, “I won’t be attempting to run anytime soon. I’m afraid I’m quite sore and stick-straight after being stuck in that horrid thing all these hours.”

She took a deep breath before seating herself once more. “I come to you today, a simple witch of England, who is human,” she crossed her legs. “Humans feel. We rage and we joy, and we despair, and we love. Is it love, Minister, if your partner is not fully aware of all sides of the story?”

“Where is this going, Black?” the Minister let out a sigh. Remus looked momentarily to the witch’s family, who he sat beside. Alphard was deathly stiff, his hands clenched in his lap. Walburga’s fingers were tangled in her dress, her feet crossed at the ankle, and she took in the scene before her. He could see her lips twitching, a sign that she must be angry if there was any doubt before. He returned to Ascella.

“You are married, correct?” she met Spencer-Moon’s eyes, and he nodded hesitantly. “Then you know what it is to be a man who loves unconditionally, that wishes for a fair union between equals. We cannot be equal, Minister, if there are secrets. My life is a secret. Our very _existence_ ,” she raised a chained hand to point to the crowd and jury, “is a secret. Some secrets should not be kept, sir, when the ultimatum makes us choose between love and untruth. My relationship with Amina Roberts was one where I wished to be who I was unabashedly and truthfully, and I saw it fit– no, _essential_ for her to know. In fact, I believe the only reason we are here today is because of my lover!”

The Minister reeled back. “That– that is a very bold accusation to make!” he blubbered. “What makes you think that is true?”

“Perhaps it is not the Ministry who might hold just bias, but my family has been one of the long-lasting prejudices that look down upon anything remotely Muggle. My love for Amina Roberts, a non-magic, was disgusting to those right there,” she got to her feet in a singular, fluid motion and pointed to the Blacks, a long finger unwavering in the stuffy atmosphere. Chills glossed over Remus’ spine; he felt like she was pointing at him. “It didn’t help that she was a woman, no doubt about it. I am innocent of these crimes, Minister. The only one I have seemingly committed was being queer.”

A hush fell over the room, and Remus turned to see Walburga’s lips moving, silent as if she was praying to whatever god she worshiped. Maybe a spell on the Minister to force him to sentence her to life behind prison bars. Remus was still utterly shocked, shocked enough that the memory was unmoving as he tried to process. Had the “she” Sirius and Ascella had been talking about Amina Roberts, the Black girl’s lover?

Even the Minister seemed stunned, and he stared at Ascella for some good, long moments until he found the words to say. “I still don’t see your point in this. You were in love, but how does that prove your point that you are innocent.”

“If I were guilty of being an Acolyte, why would I ever love a Muggle?” it was the only question that needed to be asked. Ascella sat back down, back straight and chin high as she stared stared stared into her sister’s eyes.

Spencer-Moon cleared his throat. “I’m aware that there are no witnesses to speak for the defendant. All those in favor of Ascella Black’s innocence of violating the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy by performing intentional and unnecessary magic in front of a Muggle?”

She would perhaps only get a temporary ban from magic, a couple months at most, but Ascella didn’t care in the least. It wasn’t that charge she was worried about, so she didn’t bat an eye at the raised hands. The sketch of a quill on parchment filled the halls, recording this verdict of innocence.

“All those in favor of Ascella Black’s innocence of treason and sedition by her support of the dark wizard Gellert Grindlewald and his motives to overthrow the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy and the enslavement of all non-Magics?”

Perhaps it indeed was a fair, unbiased decision. But the lingering moments before the slowly raised hands, the shifting in seats, and the thick, palpable tension bouncing off of the black-tile walls gave it away. There was a fear in the wizarding community. A fear that did not surpass Grindlewald, that would not exceed the would-be Dark Lord, but fear still. The fear of enraging the Blacks, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and a taller and firmer pillar amongst Britain’s wizards. And they were all reminded that January night as Ascella Black, a convicted criminal, and now-Acolyte, was thrown back into her cell on the small and storming island of Azkaban.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any notes on wizarding trials all convey that they're pretty efficient and not nearly as slow as the court system (within the United States). Basically, everything was left up to interpretation, and I tried to replicate Harry's trial during OoTF but slightly adapted so it fit this story. 
> 
> Let me know about this one! I enjoyed writing this but as a teenager with zero experience with any court cases beyond TV, I'm not sure how accurate or clear everything was.


	12. Discussions and Drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus, Sirius, and Dumbledore go over what they saw in the trial. Remus leaves for his trip, and Sirius gets bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of alcoholism, mention of suicidal contemplation (nothing serious),(non-graphic/descriptive) sexual themes, discussions of prejudice and discrimination

_January 24, 1996_

As Remus lifted his out face of the Pensieve, he found the room less-full than when he had lowered his head. It was only Sirius and Dumbledore, both of which had been discussing something in low voices in the minutes Remus had been gone.

“She left,” said Sirius when he noticed Remus watching. “She said she didn’t want to see your face when you returned.”

“She was…That girl you both were talking about two days ago, it was her, wasn’t it? Amina Roberts?” such a pretty name. So simple, but it had a deeper meaning in the halls of 12 Grimmauld Place, the place where Ascella Black had grown up and out of.

Sirius bobbed his head. “So you understand?” said Dumbledore, “The prejudices of the wizarding world are far different than any for Muggles. Race does not matter to us, nor does gender or even sexuality, but the House of Black is different and far more biased and conservative than most wizards in Britain,” Remus didn’t know just to what extent the hold of the Blacks once had over the wizarding community, only glimpses into Sirius’ life during the years they had spent together in school and over the summers. “Ascella was condemned to a life of imprisonment, abandon, and isolation because of her relationship with Amina Roberts.”

It was appalling. Remus had spent most of his life in Muggle London, so he had witnessed first-hand the racism and homophobia that reeked in the city streets and back-alleys. But all of that had disappeared when he had entered Hogwarts, for it was one’s power, wealth, and capability that located them on the hierarchy. Remus had been unfortunate enough to be piss-poor for the entirety of his life, but that was the only real prejudice he had experienced, at least until the secret was out.

He had a different type of shame over his head, one of his label as a _beast_. His tainted blood ashamed him, enough so that he never stayed in one place for long for fear of his identity coming to light. Remus had been exposed as a werewolf to Severus Snape during their shared years at Hogwarts, but the slimy prat had been forced into staying quiet out of fear of Dumbledore’s wrath. He was thankful for it; honestly, he was, but the idea that he even had to remain silent and suppress his truth was enough of a burden that it hid any relationships beyond a friendship. And God-forbid that Remus has _children_ ; he was too terrified to even imagine what would happen to his child.

Would they be some mutated abomination? Maybe even the magic squashed out of them by their father’s genetics? Or perhaps the lycanthropy was hereditary, and they would suffer the same life-long fate as their father. The thought was enough to sour Remus’ low mood.

“That’s awful,” was all he managed. “But how is she still so… _young?”_ it was the question he had been dying to ask, perhaps the one that had been bothering him the most. It was likely the teacher in Remus and the unending need to know, but it was a natural curiosity, too. The first time that Sirius had discussed Ascella with him was an odd conversation, something along the lines of her oddities and the fact that Ascella was nowhere near normal.

Dumbledore’s response surprised him. “I don’t know. It’s the one thing she refuses to tell us, or even to show me,” Sirius sat on the creaking couch. “I wonder if she even remembers. It’s a miracle she came out of Azkaban with even a shard of her sanity intact.”

Sirius hummed his agreement. “I really don’t know how she did it.”

Remus frowned as he seated himself again. “Can I ask you a question – about the trial? The verdict?” Dumbledore lifted his brow. “The first decision was one of innocence, but the second was of her guilt. Was it simply the fear of the Blacks that drove her fate? Perhaps there was something greater?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” admitted Dumbledore. His fingers, long and etched with deep wrinkled, played with the ends of his silver beard. “It’s a combination of things, I believe—that fear the Blacks instilled in the wizarding community, but also something else. Ascella represented the idea that there could be change. The daughter of a prejudiced house, fallen in love with a Muggle. It was practically unheard of, and it terrified many.”

It was Sirius who spoke next. “And of Amina?” Remus was surprised. “I never properly learned what happened to her.”

Dumbledore pursed her lips. “I was young and naïve, struggling with the grips of the inevitable battle between Grindlewald and me, and I fear I failed Ascella with my distraction. She wrote to me in late September of her fear that Amina would be hurt. Somebody had betrayed her, told her sister of the relationship, and Ascella was concerned about the fate of Amina. I-I made a mistake. I wasn’t worried and didn’t think anything series would happen, not with the end of the war.”

“And what did happen?”

“Amina was killed on Halloween. Murdered by your mother,” a look to Sirius, “and the rest of your family. Of course, nobody wanted to believe that the Blacks would commit such a heinous crime, and Amina’s death was pinned on the Alliance, the secret buried six-feet-under, and House of Black lived on.”

“That’s terrible,” said Sirius. Remus had to agree.

“Shortly after, Ascella was captured and sent to Azkaban to await her trial in the new year,” a glazed look glossed over Dumbledore’s face like he was lost in a memory.

“Did you ever meet her? Amina Roberts?” asked Remus. “Was she worth all of this?” he couldn’t help it. The question triggered something in Dumbledore, that reminiscent look gone in a moment.

“I did when they were both seventeen. I was in London visiting the Ministry and took it upon myself to visit Ascella over the summer. She was lovely,” he smiled gently. “She reminded me a bit of my sister, I think—headstrong, independent, and fiercely loyal. But you will find, Remus Lupin, that love is all we have. It’s there, always in the darkest moments of our lives, waiting in the corner for you to return.”

Remus didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. “Well then, I suppose that my meeting with Ascella is canceled for the day. Give her my regards.”

Remus watched him leave, lips tight, and waited until the front door swung closed to speak. “Did you know about all of it?” Sirius shrugged.

“Most. We didn’t talk about her much because of, well, _you know_ ,” he jabbed his thumb in the direction of the tapestry where Ascella’s burned face was painted. “Mum was ashamed, but Uncle Alphard had been decent enough to talk about her. I believe he really did love her. He visited her a lot after he was banished. Didn’t earn him any points in the grade book.”

Remus cracked a smile, even though it felt forced. “There’s still something off about her. I don’t know what it is, but…” he trailed off. Sirius eyed him with suspicion.

“She isn’t terrible, Remus. She’s human. Human and healing.”

Remus didn’t respond. He simply left the room, and once in the safety of his own bedroom, he finally allowed to sleep. He had a long day ahead of him, more like a long two weeks.

* * *

“I wish I could go back,” said Ascella when Sirius joined her upstairs. Her lips were tipped in a frown, arms wrapped around her waist with her fingers clawing at the scratchy fabric of her jumper. Sirius gave her an inquisitive stare. “To Hogwarts,” she added.

“Ah,” he furrowed his brows, not quite sure what to say. They were gathered at the window, watching the rain slam onto the cracked concrete. A group of children ran through the streets, backpacks pulled over the heads, and little wellies stepping in the puddles. “I believe you will be able to leave, Ascella. I’ve been fortunate enough to have those few moments to myself.”

She didn’t turn to face him. “How’d you do it?”

Sirius pulled a face. “Escaping, mostly. I was on the run for a long time, and I thought it’d be nice to camp out somewhere without fear of being caught. But now,” he sighed, “but now I’m cramped up in this gloomy place. I swear the walls get a bit smaller every day,” Ascella cracked a smile. “I usually leave through the back door or get Kreature to Apparate me out.”

House-elves had a different type of magic for wizards, so it made sense that Sirius would leave that way. It wasn’t as if Kreature could defy his master’s orders, not with his unbending loyalty and oath to the Blacks. Ascella briefly considered the idea herself; she wasn’t sure why she had even asked Sirius in the first place. If Ascella really wanted, she could just walk out the front door, but the prospect of leaving the safety of her home and wandering the streets of modernized Muggle London was terrified enough that she tended to avoid the immediate area around the foyer.

She could feel Sirius watching her, scanning her face for a scrap of emotion to pull from. “Are you okay with what happened today, Ascella?” her chest rose and fell beneath her jumper. She squeezed her eyes shut before finally looking at him.

“No,” she admitted. “But he needed to know. He’d think I was a traitor forever, even if I had told him myself,” Sirius knew she was right. After his condition became public knowledge, Remus’ paranoia had risen until it was at its worst.

“Is there anything I could get you? A book, maybe some tea?” she shook her head.

“I’d like to be alone now,” she gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you, though.”

Sirius gave her a polite nod, and after some internal debate to say anything else, he chose to keep quiet and shut the door behind him. Remus was on the stairs outside her room, watching him curiously. “How is she?” he asked, albeit a bit tentatively. His hands were buried in his pockets. A strand of mousy brown hair fell into his eyes.

Sirius shrugged. “Fine, a little more reserved than usual, but fine from what I can tell,” the answer seemed sufficient enough for Remus, and the two made back downstairs. “Where are you off to?” asked Sirius when he saw Remus’ briefcase by the door.

“Diagon Alley, then Yorkshire for a couple of days before I head off to Scotland,” he pursed his lips. “‘M stopping at Hogsmeade, too.”

“Hogsmeade? You think that’s a good idea considering everything?” Remus shrugged as they descended the staircase, finally landing in the hallway.

“Dumbledore assured me that no Hogwarts students will be in Hogsmeade the days I’m there,” his eyes flitted back up at the landing as if watching for Ascella before he continued. “He wanted me to talk to Snape,” a surprised cough from Lupin, “about the potions, “ he reached into his pocket, withdrawing an empty vial with a minimal amount of brew left.

“Is that it?” asked Sirius. From the expression on Lupin’s face, it wasn’t.

“No,” he shook his lips, bending down to grab the briefcase by the door. “He’s concerned about the werewolves within the forest. There’s a pack that he can’t quite read and is fairly seclusive. He hopes that with the moon arriving soon, our instincts will be high, and they’ll be more inclined to trust me,” Remus sighed. “Well, I’m off,” he leaned forward, wrapping Sirius in a tight hug before pulling back. “Tell…never mind.”

And he was off, his thin figure tense in the shoulders. Remus’ disappeared with a loud _crack_ that echoed down the street, like a clap of thunder. Sirius shut the door and twisted the lock. And they were alone again, and Ascella wasn’t in a state to keep Sirius any company. He didn’t know why he was entirely irritated that Remus was leaving; perhaps it was because he wasn’t actually due for his trip to Scotland until February 1st, but this was the third time in the year Remus had been sent out early again. Sirius had spent so much time locked up in different prisons that he was beginning to get frustrated when Remus didn’t take the time to keep his friend company. It was selfish, Sirius knew, but after all this time, he was allowed to get selfish occasionally, right?

He grimaced. He was itching to get out, even though Mad-Eye would have his head if he found out Sirius had left _again_ without his permission. It had happened a month before the Winter Break, and Sirius still felt a bit humiliated about that bout with the Auror. But Sirius was itching for an argument, itching for an interaction that could keep his sanity in check. He barely had that.

Sirius found himself wandering into the kitchens, empty for once, where he withdrew a hidden bottle of Firewhisky from beneath the sink. It was covered with a layer of dust, through the neck was slick and clean from Sirius holding it so often. He ought to take it upstairs, hide it in his own room where it was easier to access, but that was what worried him: the access. He knew about the dangers of alcohol; his father often reeked of it, despite his arrogance and perfect appearance. Sirius thought it was the drinking that caused him to strike his mother on those few occasions, though Mother never stood for it. A smirk pulled at his lips. Father had always tried to one-up Mother, to be the “man of the household,” but everybody knew Walburga Black was a strong-willed spirit who would _never_ bow down to a mundane man like her husband. Sirius had his own suspicions that his mother hated his father and that the forced marriage had never bloomed into something worthy of the title.

Sirius pulled the cap off and took a long, long drink. It burned his throat, sour on his tongue, but he took another one. It wasn’t early in the day, almost three, but Sirius supposed that it was five o’clock somewhere! It took five sips until he stopped. He hit it behind the pipes, lay a flannel over the amber glass, and softly shut the cabinet door.

It was a challenge getting up the steps, three sets of them, but Sirius managed to stumble into his room, close the door as silently as possible, and cast a clumsy silencing charm. His room was a mess. The posters of Muggle women and his Gryffindor banner hung proudly on the walls, the crimson bedsheets still just as rumpled as his teenage days, but it was all of the scrolls that truly cluttered his bedroom. Folded and rolled parchments were scattered on the floor, piled on the desk, stacked in the bookshelves, and beneath his bed. It was all of his memories, the only things he could remember. He found it helped, but it was becoming tiring to reflect on some select memories. He collapsed onto the bed, parchment crackling beneath his weight, as Sirius reached beneath his back to toss the letter towards his desk.

He was exhausted, drained, even, but the Firewhiskey thrumming in his veins provided him with a restless energy that prevented any sleep. He groaned, dropping his head onto the pillow. He might as well just kill himself now if all he had to do anymore was to have a wank and drink. Perhaps that’s what he would do, and maybe he would actually be able to sleep.

So he did, eyes lingering on the nude figures of models on the walls. Azkaban had changed something in him, dulled that hot edge he so often felt as a teenager, and even in the early days of Azkaban when he had to think of something that wasn’t his friends’ deaths and the betrayal at the hands of Pettigrew. But pleasure felt stifled, just out of reach, like it was being smothered by a pillow.

When he finished, a bit breathless and that sense of post-orgasm shame in the back of his eyes, he felt that sleep come for him. It hit him hard, and Sirius was finally asleep, though it certainly wasn’t dreamless.


End file.
